


Fearless

by elle1991



Series: MCU Origin Stories by elle1991 (Same Universe) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Asexual Natasha Romanov, Avengers Family, Awesome Natasha Romanov, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Character Study, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Dark, Dark Natasha Romanov, Dark Past, Death, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Freedom, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Kid Natasha Romanov, Kidnapping, Love, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Murder, Natasha Needs a Hug, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha Romanov-centric, Origin Story, POV Natasha Romanov, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Red Room (Marvel), SHIELD, Spy Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Team as Family, Thriller, Torture, Violence, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 34
Words: 291,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8346310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle1991/pseuds/elle1991
Summary: Fearless: A Black Widow origin story.How did Natasha Romanoff go from being an ordinary child, to one of the deadliest assassins in modern history, to one of Earth's mightiest heroes?Starting when Natasha was three years old and going right up to the present day, this fic explores Natasha's life as a Red Room Academy student, KGB agent, SHIELD agent and finally, an Avenger.





	1. Natalia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/153956317541/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter-1)

 

1987 – Aged 3

 

* * *

 

**_Red Room Academy_ **

**_Record Of Enrolment_ **

Name: Natalia Alianovna Romanova

Year of birth: 1984

Year of enrolment: 1987

Nationality: Soviet

Ethnicity: Russian

Race: White

Hair colour: Red

Eye colour: Green

Status: Orphan

 

* * *

 

In Natasha's first memory, she was three years old.

She woke up, lying on her back, a strange series of images and sounds flashing through her mind: a flash of brown, the clatter of hooves on tarmac, screeching tyres and a sudden, tremendous crunching noise. She shivered as the dream –  _yes, that's what it must be_  – continued playing in her mind. She was sat in the back seat of the car, craning her neck to see her parents who were sat in the front two seats, slumped forwards, red liquid covering their faces and arms as if they had got carried away whilst painting.

They weren't moving.

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up in the hospital bed, her head throbbing and her mind groggy as she clutched the hem of her dress in fright.

She was sat in the middle of a busy hospital ward – the accident and emergency department – her parents nowhere to be seen.

Rushing around her were men and women in white and blue uniforms, talking in loud, stressed voices; smears of red on their tight blue gloves.

Natasha put her hands over her ears to muffle the noise. They were being too loud, it was too hectic; she wished they would be quiet.

When she put her hands to her ears, she discovered her head was swaddled with bandages. It made her head feel too heavy, putting an uncomfortable pressure on her neck. She didn't like it.

"Mama!"

A young nurse with kind blue eyes and long blonde hair turned towards her plaintive cry, quickly hurrying over and shining a light in her moist green eyes.

"How are you feeling, little one?" she asked gently, poking at Natasha's bandages which elicited a sharp scream from the toddler. "Can you see me OK? Can you hear me OK?"

Natasha ignored her questions, peering around the room in search of her parents and trying to shuffle out of the bed. The nurse picked her up and placed her gently but firmly back in the middle of the bed. "I want Mama," said Natasha, her lip wobbling as pressure built up in her throat. "I want Daddy. Where are they?"

The young nurse sat down on Natasha's bed, putting her thin arms around her and pulling her into a gentle hug as she stroked Natasha's curly red locks.

"They're in a special room. You can't see them right now," she said softly.

Natasha whined with frustration, digging her feet into the bed. She wanted her parents. The hospital was noisy, busy and frightening. She didn't understand why she was there – had she been naughty? Was she being punished? Whatever the reason, she had had enough of the strange, unwelcoming environment. She wanted her parents to come and take her home.

"Do you remember what happened to you?" the nurse asked gently.

Natasha looked up at the nurse, scrunching up her forehead in confusion. There was the strange dream she had had before waking up in the hospital bed – the one with the sound of hooves and the red paint on her sleeping parents – but before that everything was a strange blank.

She clutched at the nurse's skirt as she shook her head.

"She was in a car crash with her parents," said a man's voice from the doorway. A tall male doctor wearing a white coat strode into the room. "The driver in the car behind them saw the whole thing. He said that he heard a shot and saw a deer run into the road. The car swerved to avoid it and wrapped itself around a tree. The parents never stood a chance."

Natasha shook her head violently.  _The parents never stood a chance_  – what did that mean? A car crash – weren't those the things where cars would go out of control and hurt the occupants? Suddenly, the thought of her sleeping parents covered in red paint made her feel frightened and sick.

"No," she muttered to herself, putting her hands over her ears once again and moaning softly. "Mama. Daddy."

The doctor squatted down next to the bed and removed her hands so she could hear.

"You name is Natalia Romanova, correct?" he said, his tone of voice seeming unfriendly and indifferent to her answer.

The doctor scared her, he had big bushy eyebrows that were pulled down over his eyes in a permanent frown, the corners of his lips drooping in a way that made him look angry and fierce. She huddled closer to the young nurse, wrapping her arms around her middle and trying to hide behind her.

The doctor sighed impatiently and grabbed her arm, forcing her to look at him. "Answer the question," he snapped. "Is your name Natalia Romanova?"

Natasha tried to pull away from the doctor, turning her face away and feeling a cry bubbling up inside of her. Of course that was her name, her parents never struggled with her name, why was this doctor having so much difficulty with it? Perhaps he was stupid, she decided, maybe that was why he looked so cross, because he wished he was as clever as her parents. "Yes," she whispered, hoping that would make the doctor go away.

It did.

"Good," he said, standing up and turning away. "Just checking. She has no other family," he said offhandedly to the young nurse. "I've already contacted the government office so they'll be here shortly to take her to an institution. Make sure she's presentable for them and do the paperwork."

Turning on his heel, the doctor stormed out of the room without another word. Both Natasha and the nurse visibly exhaled as the door swung shut behind him.

"Arrogant man," the nurse said quietly before putting on a kind smile and turning to Natasha, who was still clinging to her.

"We're going to go to somewhere quieter, does that sound good?" she smiled.

Natasha nodded gratefully and sat still in the middle of the bed as the nurse wheeled it out of the bustling accident and emergency room and into one of the side rooms. The door swung shut behind them, blocking out most of the noise, much to Natasha's relief. The nurse gave her a kind smile and stroked her cheek.

"Let's get you looking nice, Natalia," she said softly, unwinding the bandages from Natasha's head and taking a peek at what was there. "You have a little cut on your head," she explained, "But it's already healing up nicely."

Natasha shook her head from side to side as the nurse pulled off the bandages, her curls bouncing wildly. Her head felt much better now that it didn't have the bandages squeezing it so tightly. She smiled at the nurse in gratitude.

"I want my Mama and Daddy, please," she asked politely, remembering that her parents had always told her that good manners were important. "I want to go home now."

A look of pain and pity flashed through the nurse's eyes as she looked down at Natasha. For a moment, Natasha could have sworn that she saw tears glistening in the young woman's eyes, but the nurse turned her face away and took a few deep breaths, and when she turned back, the phantom tears were gone.

"I'm sorry, little one," she said, her voice sounding tight for some reason. "You can't see them anymore."

Natasha's mouth dropped open in shock as she tried to understand what the nurse was saying. She had to be mistaken, it was impossible for her not to see her parents again; they were the only people she knew, they were her entire world.

"There are some nice people coming here now to take you to a new home, though," the nurse was saying, the smile on her face suddenly looking false and too big for her face. "One where you'll live with other children who you can play with and be looked after. Doesn't that sound fun?"

Natasha's eyes filled with tears and she choked as she gripped the hem of her dress tighter. She didn't want to live with other children. She didn't want to be looked after by strange adults. What she wanted was for her parents to come and collect her and take her home, so that things could carry on the way they always had done.

"No!" she shouted, her voice cracking as she let out a wail. "I want to go home! I want my Mama and Daddy!"

The nurse tried to pull Natasha into a hug but Natasha kicked out at her and threw herself face down into the thin hospital mattress, her tears quickly soaking the material there. She rolled onto her back and started shouting. It was imperative that her parents came before strange governmental people came and took her away.

"Mama! Mama! Daddy!"

Five minutes passed, then ten, and still her parents did not emerge from their special room. She continued shouting, the nurse bowing her head and watching her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. Eventually, Natasha's throat became sore and it became too painful to shout. Her parents were nowhere to be seen.

She grabbed onto the nurse, frightened. Her parents had never ignored her when she'd called for them before. The doctor's comment about her parents never standing a chance tugged at the corner of her mind. She was starting to get an inkling of what he might have meant.

"Where's my Mama and Daddy?" she asked quietly, her voice shaking slightly, still hoarse from shouting.

The nurse let out a sigh and stroked her hair and was about to answer when they were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

"Come in," called the nurse, grabbing a towel and using it to quickly wipe the snot and tears off Natasha's face.

A thin, middle-aged man with long, windswept grey hair walked into the room. He was exceptionally tall and was wearing a dirty beige trench coat. His dark blue eyes were framed by a protruding brow and stood out in his pale, unsmiling face. These eyes zeroed in on Natasha immediately, scrutinising her with an intense gaze.

Natasha gasped and shrank away from the man in fear, which only made him come closer, peering at her as if she were an exhibit in a museum.

"I heard there was an orphaned girl?" he asked, staring at Natasha who was attempting to hide behind the nurse. His voice was cold and confident, and something about him radiated authority, causing the nurse to stand up, much to Natasha's displeasure.

"Are you from the government?" the nurse asked nervously, eyeing the man's dirty coat and bedraggled shoulder-length hair.

"Yes," he snapped, turning his attention to the nurse and frowning at her, causing her to take an involuntary step back. He rummaged around in his coat and produced some official-looking papers, thrusting them under the nurse's nose as he continued to survey Natasha.

Natasha thought, with his prominent brow, long nose and small mouth, that he looked rather like a vulture.

"My name is Vladimir. I'm from the Red Room Academy. We're a special residential school for orphaned girls." He suddenly turned to the nurse, fixing her with his piercing gaze and looking at her down his long, crooked nose. "Is she healthy? No diseases or congenital conditions?"

The nurse seemed rather taken aback by the question, opening and closing her mouth a few times before hurriedly picking up the file at the foot of Natasha’s bed and flicking through it.

"No diseases or conditions," the nurse replied after a small pause, as she skim read Natasha's medical records. "It says she's a normal, healthy little girl." She closed the file and looked at Vladimir nervously. "May I ask why that's important?"

Vladimir was silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving Natasha as she sat shivering on the bed, before smirking and waving his hand dismissively. "It's just a condition of enrolment at the school. The Academy only wants healthy girls."

He finally stopped staring at Natasha and straightened up. "There are papers that need to be signed?" he said imperiously.

"Oh, yes, of course," the young nurse blustered, dithering on the spot for a moment as she considered whether to ask the strange, somehow imposing man to move out of her way, before deciding against it and awkwardly squeezing past him instead, cringing as she brushed against his filthy trench coat. With an anxious glance to Natasha, who was sat rigid and wide-eyed in the middle of the bed, she hurried out of the room to fetch the required documents.

As soon as the door swung shut behind the nurse, Vladimir crept closer to the bed, peering at Natasha who trembled harder as he approached.

"Hello, little girl," he said softly, kneeling down and touching Natasha's cheek.

He smelt sour, like tobacco and sweat and something else that Natasha couldn't quite identify but, for some reason, reminded her of the dream with the red paint. Natasha drew away from his hand with a small whimper, sticking her thumb anxiously into her mouth.

He seemed amused by this and laughed. "Oh yes," he said, his eyes shining in a way that Natasha would later label as  _predatory_. "I think Madame B is going to be very pleased to have you."

He reached out and touched Natasha's hair, tracing his fingers along one of the red curls as if deep in thought.

At that moment, light footsteps approached the door and the young nurse re-entered the room, causing Vladimir to straighten up hastily.

She was clutching a batch of forms, the black Cyrillic typeface standing out boldly on the white paper.

She paused as she entered the room, taking in Natasha's frightened expression and Vladimir's new position stood next to the bed.

"You just need to fill in some details and sign here," she said, handing him the papers before placing herself between Vladimir and Natasha.

She picked up Natasha's shoes from a rack at the foot of the bed and gently held her feet whilst pulling on the little shoes and tying the laces carefully.

Pulling a well-chewed pen from his trench coat pocket, Vladimir sat down on the other end of the bed and rested the forms on his knee, quickly filling them out with small, neat lettering. Natasha watched silently as he scrawled his signature at the bottom of the final form.

A feeling of dread started gnawing at her stomach. Were those forms signing her over to this strange, tall man, Vladimir? She wanted to ask the nurse, but something about Vladimir made her feel uneasy and afraid to speak.

"The Academy will require a copy of her birth certificate, for our own records," he said to the nurse, handing her the filled-out forms.

The nurse took the forms and flicked through them, making sure everything was filled out correctly before nodding.

"Of course, sir," she said. "Just one moment."

She hurried from the room once more.

This time, Natasha kept her head down, hoping that if she avoided eye contact, Vladimir would refrain from talking to her or staring at her. It seemed to work and she breathed a small sigh of relief. She didn't like the way he smelled, or the intense way he stared at her, as if he were x-raying her with his eyes alone.

She thought about what he had said earlier, about coming from a special residential school for girls. She wondered what the girls would be like. She wondered if her parents would be allowed to take her home once they came out of their special room at the hospital. The nurse had said that she couldn't see them anymore, but that seemed mightily unfair.

Quick footsteps marked the return of the nurse, who was now holding a copy of Natasha's birth certificate. She handed it to Vladimir, who took it in his left hand.

"Will that be all?" the nurse asked.

Vladimir nodded, pulling a black cap down onto his head and straightening his long trench coat.

"Yes," he said, giving her a yellow-toothed grin that made the nurse shiver slightly. "We'll be leaving now."

He buttoned up his coat and held his right hand out to Natasha, looking at her expectantly.

She stared at it uncomprehendingly. "But Mama and Daddy," she said slowly, not moving from her position on the bed. "Aren't they coming too?"

Vladimir sighed and picked her up off the bed when she made no move to take his hand. "No, Natalia," he said, squinting at the birth certificate. "There are no parents where we're going."

Without a word, he opened the door and started walking through the hospital, following the signs for the exit.

Natasha watched the nurse over Vladimir's shoulder as they two of them moved away. The young woman gave her a wave and a small smile.

Natasha waved uncertainly back, the feeling of unease in her stomach increasing with every step away from the friendly young nurse.

She made a pained noise as the exit came into view. She started wriggling and reaching out, trying to catch hold of something, anything that would slow Vladimir's steady pace towards those big transparent doors. She couldn't leave the hospital. The nurse had said her parents were here in a special room. She couldn't leave them.

A sharp slap to her bottom made her cry out. "No wriggling," Vladimir snapped. "Madame B doesn't like naughty girls."

Natasha bit back a whimper as she allowed herself to go limp in his arms. Her parents hadn't come when she'd called for them. Did that mean they didn't love her anymore? Was that why she was being taken away by this strange man?

A small cry escaped her throat as tears trickled down her cheeks.

They exited through the large doors, the cold Russian wind hitting them immediately and causing Natasha to huddle, instinctively, closer to the sour-smelling man carrying her. He didn't react, continuing his steady pace along the pavement until eventually he came to a stop outside a battered-looking black van parked on the curb.

Vladimir fished out a set of keys from his pocket and balanced Natasha on his hip with one hand whilst the other quickly unlocked the van and opened the door. He placed her in the back seat and strapped her into the seat, making sure the clip was fastened securely before closing the door and walking round to the other side to climb into the driver's seat.

Buckling himself in, he put the key in the ignition and started the engine, checking the road in his mirrors before pulling away and joining the traffic heading out of the city.

Natasha felt a surge of panic as the van passed the hospital and started to slowly increase its speed away from the building. She pressed her face against the van window, banging her tiny fists against the glass almost hysterically.

"Mama! Daddy!"

Vladimir ignored her, watching his rear view mirror intently as he spotted a government-marked car slowing to a stop outside the hospital.

He smiled, rounding the corner and pulling out of sight just as the government officials stepped out of their car.

When the officials arrived at the hospital reception about collecting the orphaned girl, they were confused to hear she had already been taken.

When the young nurse tearfully told them that a man called Vladimir claiming to be from the Red Room Academy had taken her just a few minutes before, the police were alerted.

When the police heard the name of the school the alleged kidnapper had come from, they dropped the case.

All police forces in the Soviet Union had heard rumours about the Red Room Academy. It was said that any police officer who had tried to investigate the mysterious school before had ended up missing, dead or abruptly resigning from the police force. There were some rumours that the school didn't exist, and other rumours that it was cursed.

The only thing they knew for sure was that they should stay away from anything to do with the Red Room Academy.

Nothing good ever came out of there.

 

* * *

 

Natasha arrived at the Red Room Academy about 3 hours after being snatched from the hospital.

The drive had been long and bumpy, the van rattling through the Russian countryside over ill-maintained roads. Vladimir had not said a word throughout the drive, something that Natasha found both intimidating and a relief.

She had watched despondently as the cityscape had given way to fields and forest, the tarmac gradually turning into mud.

When they finally pulled up to the Red Room Academy, she had fallen asleep, only waking when Vladimir opened the van door and started unbuckling her from the seat. She rubbed a hand across her eyes before wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to stave off the bite of the frigid air.

Vladimir lifted her out of the van before silently taking her hand and leading her up the drive that led to the school.

Natasha clung onto Vladimir's hand, staring wide-eyed at the building. It was two storeys high, made of dark stone and with high, imposing windows. A short flight of stairs led to the thick wooden front door, which was flanked by frowning stone gargoyles.

It was not a school that exuded a sense of warmth or welcoming.

Natasha pulled back, not wanting to go any closer to the intimidating-looking building, eliciting a grunt and a sharp tug from Vladimir who continued half leading, half dragging Natasha up the steps to the front door.

He reached out and grasped the heavy iron handle, twisting it to the side and pushing it open, shoving Natasha inside when she made no move to cross the threshold.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness, but when they did, she saw that she was standing in a grand-looking entrance hall, with a black and white chequered marble floor, a dark mahogany staircase sweeping upwards, and two long corridors on either side of the staircase leading to other rooms on the ground floor. The corridors were illuminated with dim lamps that offered meagre light and only the illusion of warmth.

Natasha heard a quiet rustling, scuttling sound and, as she finally zeroed in on the source of the noise, took a small step backwards in shock. Around 10 girls in identical uniforms were silently staring at her from the top of the staircase, their heads angled down at her in such a way that it cast eerie shadows across their faces.

She whimpered and gripped Vladimir's hand tighter, feeling spooked by the girls' silent, unwavering gazes and blank expressions.

Vladimir pushed the heavy door shut behind them and led Natasha up the grand wooden staircase. Natasha watched in terror as they approached the silent, staring girls, feeling her legs shaking underneath her, but as Vladimir approached, they parted, slinking back into the shadows and scuttling away as the two of them approached the top of the staircase.

Natasha let out a shaky breath, which caused Vladimir to chuckle for some reason.

"There's much scarier in here," he said with a smirk, ignoring the way Natasha stiffened at his words.

He continued to lead her down the wooden-floored corridor. Some of the doors were open, allowing Natasha to see inside the rooms. About half the rooms appeared to be classrooms, but the other half lacked any furniture whatsoever and had thin mats on the floor instead. Natasha tried to look closer into one of these strange rooms, but Vladimir pulled her forwards, only stopping at the end of the corridor outside a heavy wooden door with ornate carvings similar to those on the staircase.

He raised his hand and knocked.

A feeling of nervous anticipation built up inside Natasha, making her feel dizzy.

"Enter," came a woman's voice from inside the room.

Vladimir opened the door and pushed Natasha inside, handing her the papers from the hospital. She took them and waited for him to join her but he did not, closing the door instead. Natasha froze. As much as she had found his unfriendly demeanour and sour smell somewhat intimidating, he was all the company that she had had over the last 3 hours; he had taken care of her, held her hand and even scared away the creepy, silent girls who had been standing ominously at the top of the staircase when they had first arrived.

She felt her heart rate increase with stress as she realised she was now alone in the presence of a new, unknown person.

"Give me the papers and sit down," the woman's voice commanded softly.

Natasha slowly turned around and surveyed the woman. She was sat behind a large desk and looked to be in her late 30s or early 40s, with blonde hair streaked with grey and steely blue eyes. She was a very beautiful woman, with a delicate, feminine facial structure and an aura of cool, calm concentration. She was wearing a fitted navy blue blazer over a plain black dress, looking as elegant, formal and mysterious as the building.

The woman was looking thoughtfully at Natasha, who still hadn't moved.

"I said give me the papers and sit down, please," she said. "I won't ask again."

Natasha hurriedly stumbled over to the woman and handed her the papers before returning to the other side of the desk and clambering onto the chair, sitting down as elegantly as she could, pressing her hands to her knees. She could sense that the woman before her commanded respect.

"Very good," the woman smiled, revealing perfect white teeth, a colour accentuated by the dark red of her lipstick. "My name is Madame B. I am the headmistress here at the Red Room Academy. I'm also your head of year, so I will be teaching you throughout your time here. We're a special school; we teach girls a very specific skill set. Not many people graduate from here, but those who do are the best."

Natasha stayed silent. Madame B spoke perfectly enunciated Russian, but she didn't know what  _graduate_ meant, nor what this  _special skill set_  was that Madame B was referring to. She wished she would stop speaking in riddles.

Madame B fell silent as she carefully read through the hospital notes Natasha had handed to her.

"Your name is Natalia?" asked Madame B.

Natasha nodded.

"Is that the name your parents called you in day-to-day life?"

Natasha nodded again, wondering why she was asking such odd questions.

Madame B tapped a finger to her chin, clearly thinking carefully. "From now on, your name will be Natasha," she declared after a short pause. "It is a diminutive form of Natalia and much nicer, don't you think?"

Natasha sat still, confused. Her parents had always called her Natalia. Natasha was indeed the informal version of her name, but her parents had always much preferred the full name.

"But my parents like to call me Natalia," she whispered, not wanting to be rude but feeling that it was important for some reason.

Madame B gave a small laugh, a musical, tinkling sound. "My dear child," she smiled, seeming genuinely amused by Natasha's comment. "Your parents are dead. Do you not understand what that means? It means they're not coming back. Their likes and dislikes are meaningless now. They're gone."

Natasha felt a strange pressure building up inside her. Somewhere nearby, someone had started screaming, a high continuous note that occasionally broke off with huge gasping breaths. A burning sensation was hurting her throat, and when Natasha brought up her hand to touch it, she was shocked to find that the screaming sound was in fact coming from her. She clamped her mouth shut and the terrible screaming sound stopped immediately, the room suddenly silent save for her deep, ragged breaths.

She felt dizzy and sick. A painful sensation had settled in her chest, making it hard to breathe. When she touched her face, she found it was wet with tears.

Madame B watched her pensively for a long moment, before smiling gently.

"You should forget about your parents," she said.

Natasha shook her head hard, gripping the hem of her dress so hard that her hands hurt. She closed her eyes, trying to block out Madame B and the Red Room Academy and the stifling, oppressive atmosphere.

She would never forget her parents, she vowed. She would never forget their faces. She would never forget the kindness and love that they had treated her with.

Madame B stood up, walking around the ornate wooden desk to rest a hand on Natasha's shoulder, smirking when she felt the little girl flinch at her touch. She bent down so that her head was level with Natasha's, trailing a perfectly manicured finger through Natasha's curly red hair. 

She watched with interest at the way Natasha trembled at her presence. New students were always so amusing, she thought.

She put her finger underneath Natasha's chin, forcing her to open her eyes and look directly at Madame B. She purposefully made and held eye contact with the youngster, making sure that Natasha knew she was being 100% truthful with what she said next.

"We are your family now," she said, smiling her perfect smile.

Natasha shivered.

 

* * *

 

Shortly afterwards, Natasha was taken to her dormitory.

She picked self-consciously at her new clothes. Madame B had stripped her of her own clothes in her office, dressing her instead in the same uniform she had seen the girls at the top of the staircase wearing when she had first arrived. The pale blue blouse and navy blue pinafore dress were stiff and made her skin itch.

She trailed after Madame B miserably as she was led through the maze of corridors, passing imposing wooden door after imposing wooden door so quickly that Natasha was sure she'd never be able to remember the way around later.

Eventually, they came to a stop in front of one of the doors. It had a large number 3 stuck on the front of it, something that Natasha could read and which she proudly pointed to.

"Three," she said, smiling and pointing at the number. Her mother had taught her how to count to ten a few weeks previously.

"Correct," said Madame B. "This is the dormitory for our 3 year old students. There are around 20 girls in your year."

She pushed open the door to reveal a large room containing 20 evenly spaced beds, an assortment of rickety-looking chests of drawers and a few large wooden wardrobes.

What struck Natasha was the lack of colour in the dormitory. The stone floor was a dull grey and the walls and ceilings were a faded shade of beige. Even the sunshine that was streaming in through the large, tall windows seemed strangely colourless, not bright and yellow as Natasha remembered it.

There were around 20 girls of her own age scattered in groups around the room. They immediately stopped talking and got to their feet when Madame B and Natasha entered the room.

"Good afternoon, girls," said Madame B sharply.

"Good afternoon, Madame B," the girls chorused back.

Madame B pushed Natasha forward with a firm prod to the back, causing her to squeak slightly as she stepped forward. The girls' eyes slammed onto her immediately, looking at her intently with expressions ranging from curiosity to hostility to that strange blankness. Natasha looked down, flushing red and shuffling her feet uncomfortably under their intense gaze.

"This is Natasha," said Madame B. "She is joining your year."

This was apparently a sufficient introduction, because after saying this, Madame B simply turned and left the room, closing the door behind her with a sharp snap.

The room remained silent, the other girls continuing to stare at her wordlessly, although some of those closest to her had started to approach Natasha cautiously. Their slow approach unsettled Natasha, but she tried not to let it show. She sensed that this was a place where any fear or weakness would be preyed upon.

One of the girls had come much closer than the others. She was now within a few feet of Natasha, stepping slowly and purposefully towards her, her head cocked in an expression of curiosity. She had dark brown hair, big brown eyes, a round face and a button nose. Those brown eyes were now comically large as she leaned forwards on her tiptoes a foot away from Natasha, her eyes roving over her as if trying to examine the newcomer.

"My name is Natasha," she blurted out, finally breaking the increasingly intense silence. "What's your name?"

Her words seemed to break the spell, as suddenly the atmosphere became much more relaxed. Most of the girls turned away from Natasha and continued talking and playing as they had been doing before Madame B and Natasha had entered the room. Only the three girls closest to Natasha continued watching her.

The dark haired girl who had crept closest to Natasha broke into a wide smile which lit up her whole face.

"My name is Elena," she announced. She had a warm, friendly voice which instantly put Natasha at ease. She found herself relaxing and smiling back, relieved to be finally meeting someone who was seemingly friendly and normal. Elena was looking at her excitedly, apparently intrigued and interested by the new girl, a stark contrast to the creepy unsmiling girls Natasha had seen earlier.

"Hello Elena," she said softly, giving her a shy smile and a small wave.

Elena almost vibrated with excitement as she grinned back.

Natasha's eyes flicked to the other two girls who were standing with Elena, staring at her silently.

One of the girls had platinum blonde hair, dark blue eyes and sharp, slightly pointy features. She was a very beautiful girl, but her features lacked any of the warmth that radiated from Elena. The girl was eyeing Natasha suspiciously, narrowing her eyes and glaring at her.

Elena saw Natasha looking at the blonde and pointed at her, seemingly oblivious to the nasty looks she was shooting Natasha.

"This is Katerina," she said. "And this is Tatiana," she continued, pointing to the other girl, who was looking at Natasha with a blank expression on her face.

Tatiana looked strangely colourless; her hair was such a mousy shade of brown that it almost looked grey, and her blue eyes were so pale they barely had any pigment in them at all. She had thin, delicate-looking features that were schooled into an unreadable expression. She wasn't glaring at Natasha in the overtly hostile way Katerina was, but she wasn't smiling like Elena either.

"Hello," Natasha said weakly, trying to smile at the strange pair.

Neither of the girls responded, which set Natasha's nerves on edge. Trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, she turned back to Elena.

"When did you arrive here?" she asked, trying to strike up conversation with the girl. For all of Elena's eager smiles and warm demeanour, she didn't seem particularly good at initiating a normal conversation. Natasha wondered if perhaps she had never had the opportunity before. "Where are your parents?"

Elena cocked her head to the side as she thought about it, sucking on her thumb. "I think they're dead," she said amiably. "I don't know what happened to them. I came here as a baby. We all did. You're the first new person I can remember joining our year."

She finished off her sentence with a huge smile, taking a step closer to Natasha so they were less than a foot apart, clearly fascinated and excited by the new girl.

"My parents are dead too," Natasha said softly. To her horror, her eyes filled with tears as she said it. She took a deep breath and held it, not wanting to cry in front of the others. "I... I miss them."

For the first time, Katerina's expression changed into a smile. It was not a compassionate, warm smile, however, but one laced with gleeful spite.

"Your parents are cold and ugly now," she crowed, grinning at Natasha nastily as she let out a small wail and tears spilled over her cheeks. "They'll be buried in the ground and eaten by worms and bugs."

Natasha's eyes widened in horror and she shook her head violently, her hair whipping across her face messily.

"They'll be worm food and you'll never see them again!" Katerina laughed heartily, her eyes bright with excitement as she watched Natasha's face crumple. Natasha put her hands over her ears, trying in vain to block out Katerina's spiteful words.

"Stop it!" Elena shouted, stamping forwards towards Katerina, her face red with anger and her tiny hands balled into fists. "Stop being mean!"

Katerina's smile dimmed just a notch, her laugh petering out as Elena glowered at her. Sighing, she turned away sullenly, crossing her arms and refusing to acknowledge either Natasha or Elena.

Elena turned away from Katerina, shaking her head angrily before returning to Natasha and taking her hand, pulling her towards one of the cupboards.

"Come on," said Elena. "I'll show you a secret room."

Natasha followed Elena obediently, squeezing Elena's hand with one hand and wiping her face dry on the sleeve of her dress with the other.

Elena stopped in front of the wardrobe and pulled it open. Inside were an odd assortment of clothes, rolled up gym mats like the ones Natasha had seen in some of the classrooms earlier and sweeping brooms. Elena pointed inside, clearly wanting Natasha to enter.

Natasha stepped into the wardrobe carefully, feeling slightly foolish standing amongst all the coats and dresses hanging from the clothes rail. Elena followed her in and pulled the door closed after her. The door didn't quite fit the frame, meaning that a sliver of light was allowed to enter the wardrobe so they weren't in complete darkness.

Elena sat down on a gym mat, pulling Natasha's hand in a gesture for her to do the same. Natasha sat down, looking at Elena once her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. Elena was looking at her with a big smile on her face.

"This is the secret room!" she whispered excitedly.

"No it's not, it's a wardrobe," replied Natasha, without thinking. She regretted her words as soon as they came out of her mouth, as she saw Elena's bottom lip stick out into a pout, clearly disappointed that Natasha did not think more highly of her hiding place.

"No, it's a secret room!" Elena insisted, gesturing around the wardrobe as if to reiterate how mysterious and secret it was.

Natasha nodded. She supposed that in the open plan dormitory, the girls rarely had any private spaces. This wardrobe was as probably as secret a room as it was possible to get in this place.

"Yes, sorry, it is," she agreed, feeling relieved when Elena stopped pouting and started smiling again.

The two girls lapsed into silence, but it wasn't the awkward or intimidating silence that Natasha had experienced with the other girls, this one felt much more relaxed.

"I think your parents are angels now," said Elena out of the blue. She chewed on her thumb thoughtfully. "Or maybe they're ghosts."

Natasha shivered, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them. "I'm scared of ghosts," she said. She adamantly hoped her parents hadn't turned into ghosts.

Elena made a small noise of protest. "I'm sure they're friendly ones," she said softly. Natasha could see her smiling gently in the darkness. "They’ll look after you."

Natasha thought about this for a while. If there were scary ghosts, like the ones she was frightened of, then it made sense that there would be friendly ones too. And her parents had always been friendly and caring whilst they had been alive, why would their ghost selves be any different? This gave her a small feeling of comfort. Perhaps not all ghosts were scary, after all.

She reached out and held Elena's hand. Elena looked momentarily surprised but then instantly relaxed, squeezing Natasha's hand in the darkness, a joyful smile spreading over her face.

"You're nice," said Natasha, after a pause. "I like you."

Elena moved so that she was sitting on the same mat as Natasha, resting her head on Natasha's shoulder, her dark brown hair mixing with Natasha's red locks. "I like you too," she replied, her hand still holding Natasha's. "Ignore Katerina, she's just mean."

Natasha nodded, it seemed the wisest course of action.

"Why didn't Tatiana say anything to me?" she asked curiously. She hadn't sensed any hostility from the girl, which made it all the more puzzling why she hadn't spoken when they had been introduced.

She felt Elena shrug her shoulders.

"Tatiana doesn't say very much," explained Elena. "But she's OK. She's not mean. And she's very clever. I like her more than Katerina."

Natasha nodded once more, dropping her head to rest on top of Elena's, inhaling the sweet, clean scent of her hair. She felt Elena snuggle closer and closed her eyes contentedly. It felt good to have a friend in this odd school.

After a while, Natasha's legs started to get stiff. She stretched them out and accidentally kicked the door, jerking Elena, who had fallen asleep on her shoulder, out of her doze.

Elena yawned and stretched, standing up so that her head was amongst the coats and dresses hanging down.

"It's time to leave the secret room," she declared, her voice muffled by the clothes. "If we stay too long then some of the magic escapes. It's a magic room," she added, as an afterthought.

Natasha clambered to her feet and followed her friend out of the wardrobe, blinking slightly as she emerged into the sunlit room.

 

* * *

 

Her first meal time at the Red Room Academy was later that evening.

At around 7pm, Madame B returned to the dormitory. The girls immediately stopped playing and stood in respectful silence. Natasha followed suit. It seemed like the best thing to do was to copy the other girls while she learnt the rules of this peculiar school.

Madame B nodded, seeming pleased, and called for the girls to follow her down to the dining hall.

They organised themselves into a line and followed her through the labyrinth of corridors. Natasha held Elena's hand tightly, trying hard to remember the route. After walking for several minutes, they finally arrived at the dining hall. There was almost no sound coming from the room, which meant that Natasha paused in shock when she entered the room to see around 250 girls of various ages already sat down at long tables in the hall.

The girls ranged in age from babies to 18 year olds, all wearing the same uniform of dark blue dresses over pale blue blouses, with weirdly blank expressions on their faces. What unsettled Natasha most of all, however, was the silence. It seemed impossible for her that so many girls could all be in a room so silently, and yet here they were, hundreds of girls sat perfectly still, not a word passing their collective lips.

Madame B led the girls the remaining empty table, it seemed they were the last to arrive. As Natasha took her seat, she looked around the hall. The girls were all seated at separate tables for their separate year groups, with the teachers sat at a long table at the end of the hall on a slightly raised platform. Natasha recognised Madame B and Vladimir.

Madame B took her seat in the middle of the staff table and rang a small bell, which apparently meant the girls could begin their meals, as the girls all picked up their spoons and started to eat their food.

Natasha picked up her spoon and started to slurp up the thick, warm soup that was in front of her.

"What kind of food do you normally eat here?" she asked Tatiana, who was sat opposite her.

Tatiana's eyes widened but she didn't reply, instead giving Natasha's shin a sharp kick under the table.

Natasha dropped her spoon, in surprise more than in pain, and turned to Elena indignantly.

"Tatiana kicked me," she whined, sticking out her bottom lip in a moody pout, half to make conversation and half in the hope that Elena would spring to her defence as she had done earlier with Katerina.

Instead, Elena shook her head minutely, pressing her index finger surreptitiously to her lips in a silent command to be quiet. Natasha scrunched up her forehead in confusion. Elena picked up a piece of bread and used it to hide her mouth from the others, whispering just loud enough for Natasha to hear her next, urgent words: "Don't talk," she muttered. "The teachers don't like chatty girls."

Natasha looked around and realised that a lot of eyes were on her. She ducked her head, keeping her mouth shut and trying to make herself look as small as possible, hoping the other girls would lose interest in her if she blended in with everyone else.

It seemed to work. After a few minutes of silence, Natasha dared to glance up again to see that most of the girls had turned their attention back to their meals.

She ate the rest of her soup in miserable silence, stealing glances at the other girls at her table who were all quietly eating their food, heads down. Even Elena didn't speak, although she did occasionally shoot her small smiles from behind her bread.

Natasha bit down on her lip, blinking away tears that threatened to spill over onto her cheeks. She wanted to go home.

She was jerked out of her thoughts by the scrape of chairs on the wooden floor as the girls started to stand up. Natasha hurriedly followed suit, glancing around nervously, not sure what was going to happen next.

Elena noticed her discomfort and brushed her hand against Natasha's. "Bed time now," she whispered.

Madame B returned to their table and Elena fell silent, looking at the floor. Madame B glanced at her for slightly longer than was normal but didn't comment, before leading the girls back through the winding corridors back to their dormitory.

Natasha trailed behind Elena, feeling tiredness pulling at her eyelids, her feet dragging on the floor as she realised just how exhausted she was. It was hard to believe that just this morning she had been pulled from her parents' car and rushed to the hospital.

They finally arrived back at their dormitory and the girls walked to their beds. Natasha hovered by the door, unsure of what to do. Madame B appeared next to her, pointing at the bed closest to the door.

"This one is your bed," she said simply.

Natasha nodded mutely and climbed onto it. It was next to Elena's bed, which Natasha was pleased about. Elena gave her an encouraging smile from where she sat on her own bed.

Madame B made her way around the beds, quickly and efficiently stripping each girl and putting her into a beige nightdress. By the time she reached Natasha and quickly changed her clothes, Natasha was almost falling asleep. She mumbled quietly as she flopped back onto her pillow, wriggling under the thin duvet.

From out of nowhere, Madame B grabbed her by the wrist. Natasha felt something cold and metal close around it and opened her eyes in shock. She stared at her wrist, which was now handcuffed and attached to the bedframe. Twisting around, she looked over and saw that Elena and all the other girls were also cuffed to their beds. They, however, didn't seem to think that anything was amiss about their wrists being handcuffed, if their calm, sleepy expressions were anything to go by.

Madame B surveyed the youngsters and left the room silently, closing the door behind her so that no light from the corridor could spill in.

Natasha laid rigidly in the darkness, shivering at the foreign feeling of the metal encircling her wrist, the stiff white nightdress feeling itchy on her skin. She could hear the steady breathing of the girls falling asleep in their beds. The noise seemed loud and grating to her ears; she had always slept alone before.

Her thoughts drifted back to her parents, the painful ache in her chest that she had been trying to ignore flaring up again as she did so. It hurt, physically hurt, to think that she would not see them again. She remembered Katerina's comments about them being cold and ugly, destined to become worm food, and shivered violently.

She clutched at her sides as a sob bubbled up in her throat, her eyes burning and her throat becoming tight and painful as she finally let out a cry that had been slowly building all day. It felt like a dam bursting, the tears flowing thick and fast as she sobbed, trembling, into her pillow.

"Shut up!" Katerina hissed from her bed, rattling her handcuff against the bed frame threateningly.

Natasha gasped and clung to her pillow, hiccupping and trying to stifle her cries, forcing herself to be quiet. She turned onto her side to mouth an apology to the other girls.

Moonlight was streaming in through the tall windows, casting the girls in a pale light, making them look like ghosts. Natasha's eyes picked out the individual girls, illuminated by the shafts of light. Katerina glared at her fiercely before turning over so that her back was to Natasha. Tatiana simply stared at her silently, her face perfectly emotionless, neither angry nor sympathetic. Natasha sniffed miserably, finally looking over at Elena who was watching her with a sad smile on her lips.

Natasha closed her eyes, wishing with all her might that all of this was just a terrible dream, that she would wake up in the morning at her house, with her parents, not at the intimidating Red Room Academy with its creepy girls.

"Natasha," Elena whispered, jangling her handcuffs gently, in a completely different way to how Katerina had shaken hers moments before. Somehow, when Elena did it, it sounded almost like music, soft and gentle. Natasha felt a lump form in her throat.

Natasha hummed quietly in response, letting her know that she was listening.

Elena started singing softly, the sound somehow automatically soothing Natasha. After the first few bars, Natasha recognised the song as a lullaby. She sighed and closed her eyes, Elena's soft singing slowly coaxing her to sleep, rocking her mind gently until it finally stopped racing.

Her hands, tightly clenched, finally went slack.

 

* * *

 

In the years that followed, Natasha would often think back to that first day.

She would try to imagine how her life would have been different if, perhaps, the hunter hadn't seen that particular deer, or if he hadn't decided to take the shot at that exact time, or if the deer hadn't bolted, or if her parents hadn't been on that particular stretch of road, or if they hadn't swerved.

Things may have been different. She may have grown up to be someone perfectly ordinary, someone who wasn't well-known in all the wrong circles; she may have simply grown up as Natalia.

As it happened, the hunter  _did_ see the deer at that exact time, he  _did_ decide to shoot it, the deer  _had_ bolted right in front of them, her parents  _had_ been driving along that stretch of road, her father  _had_ swerved to avoid it, and the car  _did_ wrap around the tree at the side of the road.

Natalia, to all intents and purposes, died with her parents that day.

In her place were the beginnings of someone entirely different: Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO: Hi there, I hope you enjoyed chapter 1 of this story! There will be 34 chapters in total once this is done, so buckle up and enjoy the (long) ride. Just to warn you, this story will get rather dark and angsty at times, but especially dark chapters are prefaced with trigger warnings, and it will have a happy ending :)
> 
> TUMBLR: I will be posting chapter art and extra teasers on [my Tumblr](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/). Feel free to have a stalk/follow me/message me if you're feeling friendly :)
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "Superheroes" and will involve Natasha's first day of school at the Red Room Academy.
> 
> CHARACTER CONCEPT ART: I have put together some concept art for the characters of Natasha, Elena, Katerina and Tatiana. You can view it [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/159946293996/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-character) if you're interested!
> 
> COMMENTS: What do you think so far? Are you excited? Are you horrified? Are you into this? Please do comment and let me know your thoughts (or just say hi, that's nice too)! <3


	2. Superheroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/153963495766/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter-2)

1989 – Aged 5

 

* * *

 

It was the last day of August and there was only one topic of conversation amongst the girls: the first day of school the next day.

Up until that point, they had had fairly normal childhoods. Despite their strictly regimented meal times and the fact they were chained nightly to their beds, their daytimes had largely been free to do whatever they had wanted, and they had spent most of their time playing together and forming friendships.

They had had nannies of various nationalities looking after them, meaning that, by now, they all spoke fairly good, accent-less Russian, Ukrainian, American English, Japanese, Arabic and Italian. Natasha had particularly taken to English, and sometimes she and Elena would speak in English simply for the thrill of it.

Natasha and Elena had formed a particularly strong friendship. They liked to play imagination games, making up their own private world and populating it with their imaginary characters.

There was a village nearby and, although they had never been allowed to go beyond the wall surrounding to Red Room Academy complex, they could see the roofs of the little settlement from their dormitory windows. Natasha and Elena would spend hours every day imagining what life in the village was like, trying to visualise the buildings and people, the smells of village life and the kind of lives the village's inhabitants would lead.

Being in the Red Room was rather like living in a bubble, shut off almost entirely from the rest of the world.

"I've heard that we get to go outside the Red Room Academy once we start school," said Elena, staring at Natasha upside down from where she was dangling her head off the edge of her bed.

Natasha's eyes widened as she looked at her friend from where she was sat cross-legged on her own bed. "Where did you hear that?" she asked, astonished.

Elena rolled over so that she was facing the right way up and beckoned Natasha closer with a knowing smile, glancing around furtively to make sure none of the other girls were listening in to their private conversation.

"One of the girls in the year above told me," Elena whispered excitedly. "She said that once you start school, you get to go into the village!"

Natasha let out an 'ooh' of admiration, causing Elena to beam. The two of them sat quietly for a while, both lost in their own heads as they imagined finally getting to step outside the school boundaries and exploring the village.

"You really don't remember the outside world from before you joined the Red Room Academy?" Elena asked, sounding slightly disappointed.

Natasha shook her head sadly, sighing.

"I don't remember any of it."

 

* * *

 

The school timetable at the Red Room Academy was rather different to those of normal schools.

The girls were taught key subjects like literacy and numeracy, of course, but there was a huge emphasis on languages and fitness.

It was getting towards the end of their first day of school, when Madame B led the girls into a cinema room for their final lesson of the day.

They had been in here earlier, watching a Disney film – Sleeping Beauty – for reasons that Natasha couldn't quite fathom, but the atmosphere in the room as Madame B looked at them all with an expression of utmost seriousness, was different, more charged.

The girls took their seats at their small, individual desks, waiting quietly for Madame B to speak.

Once the final girl had sat down, Madame B picked up a film reel from her desk and slotted it into the projector. One perfectly manicured finger flicked the switch and the machine whirred into life, bringing up the film on the plain white screen at the front of the classroom.

Natasha had chosen a seat in the middle of the front row, meaning that she had the most central view of all the girls. She watched, puzzled, as the film began.

Making sure that Madame B couldn't see what she was doing, she waved her hand ever so slightly so as to attract Elena's attention, who was sitting next to her.

Elena sent her a sideways glance, looking equally confused about what they were watching.

On the screen, two people appeared to be play fighting. Natasha watched curiously as one of the men on the screen grabbed his opponent around the waist and flipped him over his shoulder, slamming him to the floor.

The man pinned to the floor let out a groan of pain and appeared to give in, before suddenly twisting upwards and grabbing the other man by the arm, aiming a series of swift, hard punches to the man's midriff, causing him to double over in obvious agony.

The scene cut away and changed to a different one, showing a woman aiming a gun at a target about 20 metres away. She closed one eye, a look a calm concentration on her face, before firing her pistol 6 times, each bullet a perfect bullseye.

The film progressed, the scenes cutting between pairs of people fighting and individuals shooting targets with no clear order or coherence.

After about half an hour, Madame B turned off the film with a quiet click, the machine whirring to a halt.

"Hand-to-hand combat," said Madame B clearly. "Martial arts. Shooting. With the special education you'll receive here at the Red Room Academy, one day you will be as good as the people in these videos, if not better."

The girls sat quietly, not quite sure what they were supposed to say or think. Natasha raised her hand, curiosity and confusion tugging at her.

Madame B flicked her gaze to Natasha, nodding once to indicate that Natasha could speak.

"Why do we need to learn these things, Madame B?" she asked.

The other girls all leaned forward eagerly to listen to Madame B as she carefully thought about her response. Clearly, it was a question that had been burning on all of their lips.

Madame B walked around her desk to prop herself on its edge, crossing her legs elegantly as she tapped a finger against her chin.

"You are very special girls," she began. "You are different to other girls, because the Red Room Academy is different to other schools."

The classroom was completely silent apart from Madame B's words. Everyone was paying rapt attention, somehow sensing that what she was saying was very important to them personally.

"You have been chosen to be defenders of the Soviet Union," Madame B continued. "One day – when you're older, when you've graduated – you will protect the Soviet Union against threats that may try to bring it down."

There were a few gasps from the listening girls. Katerina in particular looked disgusted at the mere thought of anyone trying to attack the Soviet Union, wrinkling her nose and shaking her head, her platinum blonde hair whipping violently around her shoulders.

Madame B saw her reaction and nodded solemnly.

"Yes, there are dangerous people out there," she said seriously. "Some people who live outside the Red Room Academy have radical ideas. They believe in freedom. They believe that people should be allowed to pursue their own, selfish desires, even if these directly harm the fabric of Soviet society."

Natasha listened, wide-eyed. The girls had never explicitly been taught about patriotism or collectivism, but it was there, insidious, in the very regime of the school. The national anthem was played every day, pictures of the Kremlin Palace were hung in the main hall. For some reason, the thought of anyone doing anything against the Soviet Union sent a shudder down Natasha's spine. The idea of selfish, rampant individualism made her feel sick with disgust. Why she felt this, she could not say, it was merely a feeling, an unknown truth that every cell in her body simply knew.

"These selfish, radical people are uneducated," said Madame B firmly. "They are wild, like savages. You cannot trust them or believe a word they say. Soon, you will be taken to the village to observe their way of life, but you must always carry with you the knowledge that these village people are different. They are lesser. They are ignorant and dangerous. You must never let down your guard or allow them to pollute your minds. Do you understand, girls?"

The girls all nodded frantically, replying in unison with a fervent, "Yes, Madame B."

Madame B looked around the classroom, looking pleased with how well the girls were swallowing her message. It got easier every year, she thought to herself. She knew exactly how to mould their little minds like putty.

"You will help to create balance and harmony in the world, by getting rid of these dangerous people," she said soothingly, smiling gently at the girls.

The girls, as one, smiled back at her with calm, dreamy expressions. They were hanging on to her every word.

"Your actions will restore order to the world," she continued, "Because only through order can we have peace and happiness. Chaos breeds unhappiness, lack of control breeds lack of unity. This is the purpose of the Red Room Academy: to train you girls, such very special girls, to protect the Soviet Union. By any and all means possible."

At her last words, Natasha finally understood the link between the video they had been watching and Madame B's speech about their special role in protecting the Soviet Union; they were to take care of those who threatened the stability of the country in the same way the fighters and shooters in the video went about their tasks. This was the 'very specific skill set' that Madame B had referred to when she had spoken to Natasha in her office when she was first brought to the school.

The other girls seemed to have made the connections in their own minds too, a few of them letting out little gasps as the penny dropped.

"Do you understand, girls?" asked Madame B, her voice as smooth as silk. "You have been burdened with a great responsibility and a great privilege. Do you accept your fate: to become defenders of the Soviet Union?"

The girls replied as one, every one of them in sync with the others.

"Yes, Madame B."

 

* * *

 

That evening, after Madame B had handcuffed each of the girls to their beds and closed the dormitory door behind her, Natasha and Elena turned onto their sides so they could whisper to one another in the semi-darkness.

"It makes sense now," Elena whispered thoughtfully. "The gym mats in the classrooms. I always wondered what they were for."

Natasha nodded, contemplating this silently. They had to be trained up to be able to fight radicals when the time came. It was their job to defend the Soviet Union from those evil people who may try to overthrow it.

"Are you scared?" Natasha whispered back.

There was a pause as Elena thought about her answer. After a while, Natasha heard her sigh softly.

"I'm excited," said Elena. "We get to save the country." Another pause, and suddenly she sounded just like the 5 year old she was. "But yeah, I'm scared. Are you?"

Natasha thought about it, absent-mindedly running her fingers along the chain attaching her handcuff to the bed. She had to admit, the thought of hand-to-hand combat frightened her. The weight of the responsibility of being a defender of the Soviet Union was a heavy one to bear.

"Yes," Natasha replied. "I'm scared too."

There was another pause, in which Natasha listened to the sounds of the other girls' slow, steady breathing as they fell asleep. There were only 19 girls in their year now. One of the girls, Hania, had developed asthma, and had swiftly disappeared from the Red Room Academy. Around the same time, a small mound of earth had appeared in the grassy area behind the school. When the girls had asked where Hania had gone, Madame B had simply said that Hania had failed the programme. Natasha remembered that Vladimir had told the young nurse in the hospital that the Red Room Academy only wanted healthy girls.

When Elena spoke again, her voice was edged with giddy excitement. "We're like superheroes," she said. "Our mission is to save the country! Maybe even the world! We're going to fight for good!"

Natasha smiled into the darkness. She had admit, it was a very cool prospect.

"To be the best superheroes, we have to be good girls," Natasha replied sleepily. "Madame B will teach us how to save the world."

Elena yawned, snuggling down into her bed as her eyes slid closed.

"Yes," she said softly. "We have to do everything Madame B says."

From her position, standing silently just outside the door, Madame B smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE RED ROOM ACADEMY: Wow, I'm glad my school wasn't like this...
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "The Village" and will feature the girls' first foray into the outside world.


	3. The Village

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/154033703101/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter-3)

1989 – Aged 5

 

* * *

 

 

A few months later, Natasha and the other girls were sat in their classroom at the beginning of the school day as per usual, when Madame B walked in, 5 minutes late, pushing a trolley laden with coats.

The girls' eyes widened as they stared at the trolley and its contents, before they remembered their morning ritual and stood up hastily. "Good morning, Madame B," they chorused.

Madame B gave them an indulgent smile as she stopped at the front of the class, surveying them all steadily.

"Good morning, girls," she replied. "You may sit."

Natasha took her seat, staring wide-eyed at the coats.

In the last few months, she had got used to the usual school-day routine. An hour of Russian, followed by an hour of gymnastics, a short break, an hour of a foreign language, lunch, more fitness training, maths, another hour of a foreign language, some TV time (usually a Disney film or videos of people fighting) and finally an hour to play outside. The routine was strict but somehow comforting in its familiarity.

With her late arrival and the trolley full of coats, this was the first time Madame B had deviated from the routine.

The class sat in silence, gazing excitedly at Madame B, the room buzzing with energy as the girls' collective curiosity radiated from them in waves. Natasha sat as far forward in her seat as she could, almost leaning over her desk as she tried to get a closer look at the coats. They all appeared to be child-sized.

"You are probably wondering why I have brought these coats with me," smiled Madame B, seemingly amused by the girls' curious and bemused expressions.

The girls nodded fervently.

"Today you will go to the village," said Madame B calmly, watching the girls' reactions closely.

There was an explosion of quiet activity. Their expressions instantly changed, ranging from excited to shocked to frightened. Even the usually-impassive Tatiana took a sharp intake of breath. Many of the girls gasped or gave small "oohs" of excitement. None of them said any words out loud – they knew better than to speak without permission – but it was clear that the simple statement had had a big impact on each of the girls.

Madame B waited for the children to calm down.

"I know this will be an exciting time for you," said Madame B. "This is, after all, the first time any of you have been permitted to leave the Red Room Academy grounds. Many of you will no doubt have imagined what life outside the Academy is like."

At this point, her eyes flicked briefly to Natasha and Elena.

"You must remember, however, what I told you on your first day of school," she said gravely. "These people cannot be trusted. They are not like us. At best they are uneducated and at worst they may have nasty, unsavoury thoughts, such as a belief in selfishness, freedom and individual rights."

Many of the girls hissed and pulled disgusted expressions at the thought of this. Katerina even banged her small fist against her desk.

"If any of them speak to you, you must not believe a word they say," Madame B continued. "But speaking should not be on the cards today."

She smiled, picking up the little coats and starting to distribute them amongst the girls.

"No, today you will just be observing the village people and their way of life," she said. "It is important for you to understand how these people act. Today, I have a little test for you all; a mission, if you want to call it that."

At this, the girls smiled eagerly. They had all been invigorated when they had learned of their destiny to protect the Soviet Union, and all the girls were desperate to begin this particular aspect of their training and go on their first mission.

"You mission," said Madame B, as she gave the last girl her coat, "Is to choose a particular person in the village and look for their weaknesses. Imagine that you're on a mission and you need to get information out of them. What tactic would you employ?"

Natasha chewed on her lip. They had not been taught about any tactics. The exercise seemed rather backwards to her. Would it not make more sense to teach the girls the tactics first and then send them to decide which would be most effective on particular villagers, rather than asking them to make ones up simply by watching the village folk?

Madame B seemed to have seen Natasha's train of thought on her features, because she gave her a small smile as she continued. "Do not worry that you haven't been taught any such tactics yet," she said soothingly. "The point of today's exercise is simply to introduce you to village life and to see who among you has a natural ability for these ways of thinking. Do not worry, you will be taught all the tactics you will ever need in due course."

This soothed Natasha and she stopped chewing on her lip, a bright smile lighting up her features as she exchanged excited glances with Elena. They were going on their first ever mission; it was beyond thrilling.

Vladimir and three female teachers entered the room, already wearing their coats, hats and scarves. Madame B gestured for the girls to stand.

"Put on your coats," she said loudly over the scrape of the girls' chairs on the wooden floor. "You will be split into groups of four or three. You will stay with your adult at all times. Do you understand, girls?"

"Yes, Madame B," the girls replied.

Natasha pulled up the zip of her coat, feeling too hot in the classroom but knowing she would appreciate it once they stepped outside into the cold air. Elena's zip had got stuck. The dark brown haired girl struggled to pull it up, only managing to get it more caught in the material. Natasha stepped forward when she saw her friend struggling.

"Let me help," she said softly, sticking her tongue between her teeth as she wiggled the zip free of the material it was caught on and slid it smoothly upwards.

Elena gave her a warm smile and gently nudged their heads together. "Thank you, Natasha," she said softly.

Natasha sighed gently and closed her eyes, resting her head on Elena's, before she was brought back to reality with a firm hand on her shoulder. Her eyes popped open to see Madame B standing over her, her beautiful blue eyes looking curiously into Natasha's green ones.

"Natasha, Elena, Katerina and Tatiana," said Madame B, finally breaking eye contact with Natasha. "You are with me."

The four girls huddled into a group, the excitement and tension in the room ratcheting up a notch as the girls prepared to finally embark upon their first mission.

Madame B looked carefully around the room, making sure that all the girls were wearing their coats and standing with their assigned adult. She saw that they were and, pleased, gestured to the other adults. It was time to begin.

"Come on, girls," she said to the four huddled around her, shepherding them towards the classroom door. She led the way, Katerina following right behind her, then Natasha and Elena walking together, with quiet Tatiana bringing up the rear.

The girls were silent as they trailed behind her through the wooden corridors and marble halls of the Red Room Academy, making their way towards the main entrance.

Natasha watched with bated breath when they finally reached the front door. Madame B pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the door, pulling it open and gesturing for the girls to pass through.

Natasha grabbed Elena's hand as they stepped out of the door and walked down the steps. They had gone down these steps many times before, of course – they had their daily outdoor exercise and playtimes in the school grounds, after all – but this time it felt different. This time, they were going to leave the grounds and go to the village.

Elena squeezed her hand and Natasha could instinctively tell that her friend was as giddy with excitement as she was.

Madame B took the lead once more, stepping out in front of the girls and walking steadily towards the main gate at the front of the grounds. It was open, as it always was. The Red Room Academy didn't need a locked gate to keep the girls in the grounds, after all. The students knew better than to leave the grounds without permission.

The little group finally reached the gate and passed through it. As she did so, Katerina suddenly reached forward and grabbed the hem of Madame B's coat, falling to her knees as if she were at prayer.

"Madame B..." The sound that came from the little girl's mouth was reverent, almost religious.

Madame B looked down at her, taking in her platinum blonde hair, deep blue eyes and glazed expression, her mouth open and ever so slightly slack. She smiled down at the little girl, gently detaching her hands from the hem of her coat. She patted the girl on the head. She liked Katerina; she was such a keen student. Madame B could sense that the child had a ruthless streak.

"This way, girls," she said, walking forwards again. "Stay close."

Katerina scrambled to her feet and they made their way down the small bumpy road. Natasha gazed around in awe, taking in every single sight and sound. It felt as though she was being reborn, taking these tiny steps into the outside world once more. They were walking alongside a field and the first settlement, a farmhouse, was rapidly approaching.

Natasha pointed it out to Elena, whose jaw dropped.

"A farmhouse," she breathed.

Natasha realised, with a funny feeling in her gut, that because Elena had been brought to the Red Room Academy as a baby, this was effectively the first time Elena had ever seen a building other than the school. Natasha, at least, had memories of the hospital.

The farmhouse was small and cosy-looking. It had a single storey and was built out of uneven grey stones. The windows were framed with fairy lights and tinsel.

 _Christmas_ , thought Natasha. It was December, and Madame B had told them that people outside the Red Room Academy often celebrated this religious festival around this time of the year.

They moved past the farmhouse and continued along the road towards the village proper.

Natasha felt Elena clinging to her as they passed more houses, these ones built from more modern-looking bricks. The girls drank in every detail as they walked by.

What struck Natasha was how different all the houses looked. Some were bigger than others; some were painted in different colours; some had nicely tended-to gardens, whereas others were more messy and natural. Natasha was amazed that such divergence was allowed. The whole place seemed so wild to her, so at odds to the strict uniformity of the Red Room Academy. She remembered Madame B's words about people from outside the Red Room Academy:  _wild, like savages_. Madame B had been telling the truth. She shivered and clung to Elena.

Madame B stopped momentarily and turned to the girls, her expression serious. "Prepare yourselves, girls," she said. "We are about to enter the village market. It will be like nothing you've ever experienced. But stay calm. You will be perfectly safe if you stick with me. And remember your mission: choose a villager and think about how you would get information out of them."

The girls all nodded anxiously, looking up at Madame B with big, round eyes.

"Good girls," said Madame B, giving them a small smile before leading them into an open square absolutely heaving with activity.

Natasha felt her jaw drop open as she was confronted with the sheer chaos of the market. Strange sights, sounds and smells bombarded her from all sides, threatening to overwhelm her senses. Market stall vendors were shouting their prices and waving their produce around; customers were rushing around, a dizzying throng of tightly packed bodies.

The stalls were selling everything you could think of: food, drink, jewellery, clothing, trinkets and hand-made items. Natasha did not know that so many items could even exist.

"Wow!" she heard Elena shout next to her, over the din of the crowd. "Wow, Natasha! Wow!"

Natasha could only nod in agreement. The tremendous, wild energy was the polar opposite of the vibe that resided in the spacious, quiet halls of the Red Room Academy. If the Red Room Academy was a steady, quietly gurgling stream, then the market was a flood, a torrent of water; loud, thundering and out-of-control.

Madame B pointed to a woman in a red coat, two children following closely behind her, laughing and joking amongst themselves. "What tactic would you use on her?" she asked quietly.

Katerina let out a squeak and bounced on the balls of her feet, her hand shooting into the air, desperate for Madame B to pick her.

"Yes, Katerina?" she asked with a smile.

"She has children," said Katerina, her eyes bright. "Her weakness is children. I could pretend to be lost and ask her for help."

Madame B nodded, giving Katerina a pat of praise, hiding an amused grin at how the child sighed and leaned in to the touch. The children at the Red Room Academy were deliberately starved of touch by the staff. It made it all the sweeter for them when they were touched, giving them a hit of dopamine, the 'happy hormone'. It made for a very effective psychological reinforcer.

"And how about that man, Tatiana?" she asked, pointing to an old man sat at the edge of the market with a glum expression on his face. She knew that Tatiana was a bright girl, despite her almost mute nature. She suspected that Tatiana may be even more ept than the brash, extroverted Katerina.

Tatiana turned her pale blue eyes towards the old man, tilting her head to the side and chewing absent-mindedly on her mousy brown, almost grey, hair as she thought carefully about her answer.

"He looks lonely," she said after a long pause. "I think he would talk with anyone who approached him and showed an interest in him. I would go up to him and ask him to tell me a story."

Madame B patted her on the head too, impressed by the depth of thought in her answer. Oh yes, Tatiana definitely had a sharp mind, she thought.

She turned her eyes to Elena, who was staring around the square with her big, puppy dog eyes, a slightly bemused expression on her round face.

"What about that woman over there?" she asked the dark haired girl, pointing at a young woman with long, flowing skirts.

Elena flushed bright red, never one to enjoy being put on the spot, spluttering slightly as she tried to come up with a good answer. Natasha was about to give her a gentle pat on the shoulder to help reassure her, when she was distracted by a grunt and a squeal directly behind her.

She spun around to see a tiny piglet, small and brown and hairy, running through the forest of legs surrounding it. It was squealing happily, clearly regarding the whole experience as a game. Natasha found herself grinning in response.

A man who looked to be in his 50s, with curly grey hair and warm brown eyes, rushed after the piglet, blurting out apologies as he crashed into disgruntled market-goers in his desperate attempt to catch the piglet.

Natasha giggled with delight and, completely forgetting Madame B's order to stay close and keep focused on the mission, dashed after the naughty piglet.

She wove through the legs of the market-goers, skipping after the piglet as it led her and the man running after it on a merry chase. For a split second, the piglet stopped and turned around, giving Natasha an almost human look of amusement, before jumping into the air.

The piglet landed on one stalls, causing the stall-owner to let out an angry bellow as he shooed away the animal, which froze momentarily, surprised by the outburst.

The man chasing after the piglet took advantage of the sudden pause in its movements, reaching out with both hands and grabbing hold of the little animal firmly, a grin spreading instantly across his face as he gently nestled the baby pig to his chest, his face wrinkling in a way that showed Natasha that the man was well-practiced at smiling.

The man tucked the squirming piglet under his arm, stomping away good-naturedly towards a pen at the end of the market that Natasha had not noticed before. She followed close behind, curious as to what this smiley man and his little piglet were doing at the market.

She let out a squeak of delight when she saw the man gently place the piglet in the pen, which, she realised, contained even more pigs and piglets. She rushed forwards, pressing as close to the pen as she could, letting her hand poke over the top of the barrier in the hope that one of the animals would sniff at it and let her pat them.

She jumped slightly when a large hand closed over her own and pulled her gently away from the pig pen. She looked up quickly to see the man who had been chasing the piglet.

"Sorry, little one, you can't pat them," he explained gently. "They're farm animals, not pets."

Natasha froze, suddenly afraid and unsure of what to do. She could only remember talking to the staff and other students at the Red Room Academy and, at a push, the hospital staff who had treated her after her parents' car crash. She had no prior experience of speaking to outsiders. She remembered Madame B's comments about the village people being savages and whimpered.

"Where are your parents, little one?" asked the man, a look of concern settling over his weathered features. He was looking at her closely as he chewed on his lip in a worried manner.

Natasha tried to control her breathing as she felt a wave of panic washing over her. She wanted to go back to the Red Room Academy. She wanted the familiarity and the routine. She wanted to get away from the strange village, with its chaotic market and inquisitive residents.

Her green eyes filled up with tears.

Obviously noticing this, the man took her hand gently, kneeling down so that he was at her level.

"Hey," he said gently, rubbing a calloused thumb across her cheeks to wipe away the tears that had rolled down them. "It's OK, little one. Don't be scared. My name is James. What's your name?"

Natasha looked at James, taking in his muddy boots, waterproof overalls (which were also covered in ample amounts of mud) and thick winter jacket. He was dressed like a farmer, which would also explain the pigs. James was still looking at her, his large brown eyes filled with concern, his curly grey hair spilling across his face, his mouth curved upwards in a gentle, non-threatening smile.

"James... James is a funny name," said Natasha quietly, too nervous to look him in the face as she spoke.

To her surprise, James threw back his head and laughed loudly, startling some passing villagers. He had a big, booming laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he chuckled. Something about his manner relaxed the tight coil of worry inside Natasha, putting her at ease. She found herself smiling along with him as he wiped his eyes.

"It's an English name, actually," he corrected her, giving her a wink. "My mother was English. And what may I call you, cheeky one?"

Natasha looked up at James through her eyelashes as she played with the hem of her coat. "Natasha," she said, feeling her shyness slowly starting to erode around his warm, friendly man.

"Natasha," James repeated, giving her a big smile. "That's a nice name."

Natasha smiled sweetly back at him, before a daring idea struck her. The girls' mission had been to think of tactics they would employ to get information out of the villagers. What if she took things one step further and tried to get some actual information out of the villager in front of her? A spurt of excitement went through her as she made up her mind to take this mission to the next level.

"Where do you live?" she asked, trying to sound curious rather than excited, not letting the adrenaline pumping through her veins show in her voice.

James gave her another smile, clearly pleased that Natasha appeared to be losing some of her shyness and starting to engage in conversation. "I live at the farm at the edge of the village, near the government orphanage," he said.

Natasha remembered the old stone building next to the large field, with the tinsel and fairy lights in the windows, which they had first encountered when they had walked to the village. That must be James' house, she realised.

"That's where I live," she said. "At the orphanage."

At this, James gave her a sad smile, giving her red curls a gentle stroke. "Did you come here with one of your teachers?" he asked kindly.

Natasha nodded, taking hold of James' hand as he stood up.

"OK," he said, smiling down at her and giving her hand a little squeeze. "Let's see if we can find them. Tell me if you see them, OK?"

Natasha nodded again and huddled closer to James as they wound their way through the rows of marketplace stalls. She breathed in his warm, slightly animal scent, finding it strangely calming and homely. James, who was plodding along at a slow, even pace, seemed much less scary than the other villagers, who were rushing around the stalls in unpredictable, random ways.

"Do you like it at the orphanage?" asked James.

Natasha paused. She had a vague feeling that Madame B would be displeased if she revealed too much information about the Red Room Academy to a villager. Instead, she decided to focus on a different aspect of life at the Academy, one that she felt sure would not get her into trouble.

"Yes," she said. "I have a best friend there. Her name is Elena and she's nice."

Natasha wondered if James had a best friend. Did people outside the Red Room Academy have best friends, or were their selfish ways incompatible with friendship?

She was pulled from her musings by another question from James. "Did you like the piggies, Natasha?" he asked, his eyes twinkling as he watched the little girl bounce on her toes and grip his hand tighter as she nodded enthusiastically.

After a few more minutes of slowly walking through the stalls, Natasha spotted the perfectly coiffed hair of Madame B, tied in a bun at the back of her head. She pulled on James' hand as she pointed to her teacher. James saw where she was pointing and gently pulled Natasha through the crowd towards the woman who, he could now see, had three other little girls standing with her.

When they finally reached Madame B, James cleared his throat, obviously not wanting to touch Madame B's spotless coat with his mud-caked farming clothes.

She turned around and looked at James haughtily, before dropping her gaze to find her missing charge hand-in-hand with the villager.

"I believe this girl is one of yours, Ma'am?" said James politely.

Madame B pursed her lips, giving Natasha a cold look as she nodded stiffly. "Yes, indeed. I hope she has not bothered you?"

James gave another hearty laugh as he shook his head, gently pushing Natasha towards Madame B. "Oh no, not at all," he replied. "We've had a nice time, haven’t we, little one?"

Natasha nodded mutely, not daring to make eye contact with James under the sharp gaze of Madame B.

"Thank you for looking after her," said Madame B stiffly.

James smiled in response, giving Natasha a little wave before turning away and hurrying back through the crowd in the direction of his pig pen.

Natasha could feel her face heating up as she felt the intense pressure of four sets of eyes boring into her. For a long while, neither Madame B nor Elena, Katerina or Tatiana said anything. Natasha shuffled her feet uncomfortably before finally taking a deep breath and looking up to see Madame B giving her a spine-chillingly cold look.

"You're in trouble!" crowed Katerina happily.

"Shut up," snapped Elena, through gritted teeth.

Madame B silenced the two girls with a stern look before turning her icy attention back to Natasha. Natasha had never realised just how terrifying her teacher could be before then.

"I told you not to leave my side, did I not?" she asked, her voice as soft as silk and perfectly controlled.

Natasha nodded miserably.

"Do you care to explain why you defied a direct order? And I advise you to think carefully about your answer, unless you want to fail the programme like Hania did," she said, her icy rage giving a frightening edge to her words.

Natasha wondered briefly what Hania, the girl who had disappeared after being diagnosed with asthma, had to do with anything, before pushing the thought out her mind.

"I... I got some information out of him," she said quietly, knowing that there was nothing she could say that would excuse her disobeying Madame B's order and hoping that her subsequent actions would be enough to curb the woman's wrath. "I did the mission. I got information out of him. He lives at the stone farm we passed earlier. He never suspected a thing when I asked him."

She clutched at the hem of her coat, her heart hammering in her throat, silently begging for mercy and forgiveness as she watched Madame B's face. The woman's expression gradually changed from one of white hot anger to a small smile.

She looked down at Natasha, torn between beating the child to within an inch of her life and giving her a big hug. She refrained from doing either, sticking instead to the agreed Red Room Academy protocol, giving her a small pat on the head as a reward for desirable behaviour.

"Good girl," she said with a smile.

 

* * *

 

Handcuffed to their beds that night, Natasha relayed her adventure to Elena, the other girl listening with rapt attention as Natasha explained what had happened after she'd ran away from the rest of the group.

"Wow," whispered Elena, once Natasha had finished telling her story. "That's amazing. You talked to a village person!"

Natasha nodded excitedly. "I was scared at first," she admitted. "But then after a while I stopped being nervous."

Elena was silent as she imagined what it must have been like to talk to a villager.

"And he seemed normal?" she asked, somewhat incredulously.

Natasha nodded. James had seemed like a perfectly normal person, she thought. Perhaps quicker to laugh and smile than people here at the Red Room Academy, but in no way did he seem stupid or in any way lesser than them.

She said this out loud, to which Elena simply hummed, a sceptical-sounding noise.

"The market was so  _wild_ ," said Elena, changing the subject. "People were rushing around everywhere like animals."

Natasha nodded. She agreed. The market atmosphere had been stunningly chaotic. Now that they were back in the safe, calm confines of the Red Room Academy, their excursion to the market seemed rather like a surreal, vivid nightmare.

"I feel sorry for them," Elena declared after a while.

Natasha rolled onto her side to look at her friend bathed in moonlight, her handcuff chain jingling gently. "Why?" she asked curiously.

"They miss out on all of this," said Elena, gesturing around them. "They don't get a good education like we do in the Red Room Academy. They're not superheroes. They're just simple village people without any meaning in their lives."

Natasha thought about it and found herself feeling sad.

Elena was right. As students of the Red Room Academy, they were privileged to have a superb education and a real, meaningful purpose to their lives: to grow up to be superheroes who will protect the Soviet Union from harm.

The people from the village – the farmer, James – they had none of that. Their lives were barren and meaningless. Her heart swelled with disappointment and sympathy for them.

"Poor village people," Natasha intoned sadly.

After a while, she gradually drifted off into a restless sleep, her dreams filled with piglets, warm smiles and images of Hania – the asthmatic girl who had disappeared – watching her like a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHARACTER CONCEPT ART: I have put together some concept art for the character of James. You can view it [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/160880213186/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-character) if you're interested!
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "Daffodils" and will focus on Natasha and James' blossoming friendship. There will also be lock-picking and theft lessons, because the Red Room Academy is one fucked up school.


	4. Daffodils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/154035435386/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter-4)

1990 – Aged 6

 

* * *

 

After a while, Natasha developed a natural instinct to sense when Madame B was going to give the girls an important lecture about their future role in the world. There was something different about the way she held herself, the way she would spend longer than usual watching the girls and waiting for them to settle down, the faint press of her lips together and a strange glimmer in her eye that all told Natasha that she was about to tell them something important.

On one particular morning, she got just such a feeling as she watched her teacher. Madame B had a faraway look in her eyes, that peculiar glimmer that Natasha couldn't quite decipher clouding her beautiful blue orbs.

Natasha sat up a little straighter in her chair.

Once the girls had settled down into complete silence, Madame B walked quietly around her desk to perch on the edge of it and survey the girls.

The class of six year olds had shrunk in size from 19 to 18. Another girl had succumbed to illness and Madame B had been forced to make the decision on whether to bring her off the programme. When the child had been diagnosed with epilepsy, the decision became easy and she had put her foot down hard. The girl was withdrawn from the programme, the other girls were told that their classmate had failed, and a small mound of earth appeared overnight at the back of the school.

All of this, Madame B was comfortable with. She took pride in the fact that her graduates were of the highest calibre, that failure was something that was simply not tolerated within her place of teaching. Weakness and illness were not permitted. Indeed, failure was something that she took a particularly sadistic pleasure in stamping out. But writing the word "Failed" in a girl's file still made her think hard about the other girls in her school. With each failure, she became more and more determined that the rest of her students would not fail, that they would not be weak, that they would succeed and be the perfect, ruthless graduates that her employer wanted.

She was thinking about this on that particular morning, which probably caused her to give the girls the lecture that she did, even though it hadn't been planned into her lesson schedule. Such deviations from the schedule were infrequent, and afterwards Madame B would often see that her speeches were far too advanced for the girls to truly wrap their heads around, but she did not care. It made her feel better to get those feelings off her chest.

"You are little girls now," she began, "and one day you will grow into beautiful women. You should know that in our society, both children and women are seen as weak."

She looked hard at each girl in the classroom, making eye contact with each student before turning her gaze to the next one. The girls were leaning forwards in their seats, hanging on to her every word.

"This misconception – that as girls, as women, you are therefore weak – is something that you must learn to exploit. When your targets see you as weak or vulnerable, they will underestimate you and lower their defences. This is the moment when you must strike."

Natasha listened intently, absorbing all of what Madame B was saying with the utmost solemnness.

"Throughout your time here at the Red Room Academy, you will learn how to manipulate people into baring their souls and spilling their secrets. Outside the Red Room Academy, there are a great many different types of people. They all have different weaknesses. Some will be arrogant and brag about their achievements. Others will reveal shocking details in an attempt to frighten or intimidate you. Some may simply be careless and let things slip or leave documents lying around. Some may become weak when they form an intimate connection with someone, spilling their secrets to a lover... Although that training will come later," she added with a smile, seemingly as an afterthought.

The amused look in her eyes was replaced by a much harder expression a second later, however, as she stood up and glared at the girls before her.

"Underlying all of these tactics is the knowledge that you will be perceived as weak by your enemies. As girls, as women, they will not see you as a serious threat. They will not recognise you as an equal opponent. They will feel safe in revealing their secrets to you." Madame B took a deep breath, clenching her fists by her sides and closing her eyes briefly before continuing. "What is imperative, however, is that this  _perceived_ weakness of yours is only that – perceived. Do you understand, girls?"

Natasha sensed that the question was rhetorical and did not answer. It seemed her assumption was correct because a second later Madame B ploughed on without waiting for a response from the schoolgirls.

"Whilst it is acceptable, desirable even, for others to see you as weak, in actual fact  _you must not be weak_. Weakness is something that is not tolerated here at the Red Room Academy. And while this may seem harsh to you now, it is because weakness will not be tolerated once you become defenders of the Soviet Union. Defenders such as yourselves must be strong. You must never be weak. You must not have any physical vulnerabilities or incompetencies. You must not have any mental pressure points. Weakness is a filthy word and a disgraceful attribute."

Madame B took another deep breath, seeming much calmer when she exhaled. Placing her hands gracefully in her lap, she smiled as her cool blue eyes gazed around the room.

"Anyone displaying weakness will be removed from the Red Room Academy programme. This has already happened to two of your classmates. And know this, none of you are immune."

At this, several girls gulped audibly. Katerina had an appalled look on her face, as if she would rather die than be caught displaying weakness. Elena was shaking slightly in her chair. Even Tatiana looked perturbed. Natasha twisted her suddenly sweaty hands together nervously, a chill going down her spine and making her shiver.

"You must not be weak. Do you understand, girls? Weakness is the one thing above all else that will not be tolerated here."

All the girls nodded and replied, in a somewhat subdued tone, that they understood.

Natasha sat stock still in her chair, her heart racing as the mantra went round and round her head.

_You must not be weak. You must not be weak. You must not be weak._

 

* * *

 

In their next lesson, the girls were taught how to pick locks.

Each of the girls was given a padlock to practice on, as well as the tools they would need to pick it.

Madame B stood at the front of the class, holding up a special transparent lock that she used for demonstrations.

The girls were all stood behind their desks, craning their necks to get a good view.

"This," said Madame B, "is a lock. This is a tension wrench. And this is a pick."

Natasha looked carefully at the items Madame B was pointing to. 

The lock was a fairly standard pin-tumbler lock, albeit transparent. The tension wrench was a long, L-shaped piece of metal that looked a bit like half a tweezer with the end bent off at a 90 degree angle. The pick was a small, thin piece of metal, shaped rather like a thick needle but with a slight curl at the end rather than a hole.

"Take the tension wrench and slide it into the bottom of the keyhole," said Madame B, picking up her own tension wrench and sliding it in smoothly to demonstrate.

Natasha fumbled with hers, clumsily sliding the tension wrench into the keyhole, trying to keep it planted at the bottom as Madame B had instructed.

"Now gently twist the tension wrench clockwise," said Madame B. "It won't twist open yet, but you need to keep a constant clockwise pressure on the tension wrench in order for this to work, OK, girls?"

"Yes, Madame B," the class chorused back.

Natasha stuck her tongue between her teeth as she gently twisted the tension wrench clockwise and tried to maintain that level of pressure on the lock. She knew it would be difficult to split her concentration between keeping up this clockwise pressure, listening to Madame B's instructions and carrying them out, but she felt a small ball of determination settle in her chest.

She was strong. She would not fail.

"Very good," said Madame B, her eyes sweeping across the classroom. "Now, slide the pick into the upper part of the keyhole and feel for the first pin in the lock."

Natasha gently inserted the pick and felt around at the roof of the keyhole for the pin that Madame B was referring to. She quickly felt it move up and down as she wiggled the pick underneath it.

"Once you can feel it, push it up with the pick and remember to keep up the clockwise pressure with the tension wrench," instructed Madame B.

Natasha did so and, to her surprise, she felt the lock click and turn slightly clockwise. Her amazement must have shown on her face because Madame B gave a low chuckle and, when Natasha looked up, she saw that the woman's eyes were fixed on her.

"These locks have four pins in them. You've picked the first one, now let's see if you can pick all four and get these padlocks open for me."

The girls got to work; the classroom filling with the sounds of quiet activity as the girls painstakingly applied their newly learned knowledge to the task at hand. About 5 minutes later, Tatiana silently placed her padlock on her desk, standing stock still with her hands by her side.

Madame B walked over to the girl's desk and lifted up the successfully unlocked padlock to show the rest of the class.

"Everyone look," Madame B said proudly, giving Tatiana a pat on the head. "Tatiana has done it! Well done."

Tatiana nodded once in acknowledgement, her face as impassive and smooth as ever.

Katerina gave a bitter huff of frustration. Obviously, she had wanted to be the one to complete the task first and get the praise from Madame B.

Elena finished next, with Katerina and Natasha coming close behind, the rest of the class also completing the task within 15 more minutes.

"Very good, girls," said Madame B, once the final girl had finished the task. "Picking locks is a skill that you will use plenty in your careers. One day, you may pick a lock to help rescue a prisoner from a hostage situation, or to steal some information from a terrorist. For now, however, your focus will be a little smaller in scale."

Madame B gave her class an icy smile, like a wolf about to pounce on its prey.

"It's time for your next mission, girls," she said silkily, relishing the way the girls gasped and gazed at her with such excitement and adoration. "This afternoon, I want all of you to go down to the village, pick a lock to a house or outbuilding and steal something as evidence for me."

The girls hummed and cooed with excitement, thrilled to get to go on a mission with a real, tangible objective.

"You must work individually," warned Madame B. "Anyone caught working in groups or pairs will be punished. You must also ensure that you are not caught by a villager. And you must remember to bring me something back, to prove that you have indeed gone into a house and not simply stolen something from a garden. Is that understood, girls?"

Natasha nodded enthusiastically, her red curls bouncing with excitement as she replied: "Yes, Madame B!"

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Natasha was crouched outside James the pig farmer's farmhouse.

Her shoes were muddy and her hair was wet but she ignored it, blocking out the pitter-patter of spring rain to concentrate solely on picking the lock before her.

She inserted the tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole and applied a light pressure to it, carefully fishing the pick from her coat pocket with her other hand. She slid it slowly into the top of the keyhole, pressing ever so slightly upwards to try to feel the pins. She breathed deeply, closing her eyes for a moment and gathering together her willpower.

_She could do this._

Opening her eyes and breathing out, she felt the first pin click as she wiggled the pick. She gave a satisfied little sigh as she twisted the tension wrench, the lock turning almost imperceptibly. Giving herself a mental pat on the back, she started feeling for the second pin.

She was so focused on her task that the heavy tread of boots on stone only seeped into her conscious awareness at the very last moment.

Horrified, she yanked the tension wrench and pick out of the lock and managed to stuff them into her pocket at just the same moment that James, dressed in his muddy overalls with the addition of a wide-brimmed, sunshine yellow rain hat, rounded the corner of his house.

He came to an abrupt stop, his eyes popping wide in surprise, when he saw Natasha stood rigidly by his front door.

His shocked expression was quickly replaced by a warm, if bemused, smile as he cocked his head to the side, looking curiously at the little girl on his doorstep.

"Natasha?" he asked, sounding a bit unsure if he had remembered her name correctly. After all, they had only met once, the year before in the chaos of the market.

Natasha stood rigidly, her mind whirling at a mile a minute as she tried desperately to think of an explanation as to why she was skulking outside his property.

"What are you doing, little one?" James' voice was steady and calm, a note of concern colouring his warm tone.

In a split second, Natasha decided to seize on that hint of concern and run with it.

"I fell out with one of the girls at the orphanage," she said, sticking out her bottom lip. "Katerina is a... a poo head. I just wanted to get away and forget about her. And see you."

She smiled internally at her cover story. It wasn't even that much of a lie; Katerina  _was_ a poo head.

James gave her a sympathetic smile. "Poor you, having to live with a poo head," he said, his expression serious save for a twinkle in his eye. "Do you want to come in?"

Natasha paused. This wasn't part of the plan. She was supposed to just find a dwelling, break in and steal something, not get chatty with a villager and spend time socialising. Then again, getting caught was never part of the plan, so she supposed that she had already failed this particular mission, anyway.

She shivered, trying not to think of how Madame B would punish her when she came back to the orphanage late and empty-handed.

Shaking her head, she forced herself to focus on the present. James was still looking down at her expectantly, his offer to enter his home still hanging between them.

After a small internal struggle regarding how spending time with villagers was, if not strictly forbidden, then hugely frowned upon, her natural curiosity about entering a place that wasn't the Red Room Academy won out, and she nodded her consent.

Giving her another smile, James pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the front door, ushering Natasha inside.

Natasha let out a small gasp of wonder as she stepped into James' home. They appeared to have stepped right into his living room, although, as far as Natasha was concerned, it may as well have been another universe.

It was about as different from the Red Room Academy as she could imagine. Whereas the Red Room Academy had large, cool rooms, with minimal furniture and a subtle, muted colour scheme, James' living room as small and warm, with a crackling fireplace and a riot of hot colours: warm orange walls, a squashy red sofa and a multi-coloured rug covering much of the smooth stone floor. There were intricate tapestries covering much of the back wall, thick, interwoven threads of crimson, brown, gold, amber and black. Natasha tried to decipher exactly what the tapestry was supposed to represent, but it appeared that it was simply an abstract meld of colours, thrown together simply for the pleasure of it.

Natasha could feel the colour rising in her cheeks, an explosion of happiness spurting through her for some inexplicable reason, as she gazed hungrily around the room.

James chuckled at her amazed expression and pushed her gently further into the room, so that he could squeeze himself in and shut the door behind him.

"Do you want some milk?" he offered. "I don't have any juice, I'm afraid."

Natasha nodded and gave James a smile as she replied. "Yes, please. Thank you."

Somehow, she knew that good manners were important. She couldn't remember who had taught her that. She didn't think it was the Red Room Academy. The school taught respect, yes, but that was subtly different from good manners.

James disappeared off into what was presumably the kitchen, leaving Natasha alone in the living room.

She crossed over to the fireplace, holding out her hands and humming softly as she basked in the warm glow and listened to the crackling wood.

It was so relaxing. It felt so warm and homely and safe that she could imagine staying here and-

 _Grunt_.

Natasha whipped around, instantly alert and somewhat alarmed to find that the room was empty. She could head James rummaging around in the kitchen. Clearly, the noise had not come from him. Besides, it had sounded closer...

Natasha scanned the room, trying to keep calm as she sought out her invisible companion.

After a while, she saw it: a pair of small eyes glinting in the firelight from behind the sofa. She almost laughed a sigh of relief as the tiny piglet snuffled forward, eyes fixed on her warily, finally emerging into full view.

Natasha sagged with relief, holding out her hand to the little piglet and making soft clicking noises in an attempt to entice it closer.

"I see you've met Hairball," said an amused voice from the kitchen doorway.

Natasha looked up to see James smiling, holding a glass of milk in one hand and a plate of digestive biscuits in the other.

James crossed over to the sofa and placed the milk and biscuits on a small table next to it, before scooping up the piglet – Hairball – into his lap and settling down on the squashy red sofa.

He glanced up at Natasha, patting the space next to him. "Take a seat," he smiled gently.

Natasha scrambled up next to him, her delighted gaze fixed on the piglet in James' lap.

"You can pat him if you want," said James. "He's a pet. His mother rejected him so I decided to rear him myself."

Natasha cocked her head to the side and then, very slowly, held out her hand for the piglet to sniff. Hairball did so enthusiastically, sniffing for a good while before a tiny tongue darted out and gave her a sloppy lick.

Natasha squealed with delight, bringing her hand down gently on the animal's head to stroke and pat it gently.

The piglet closed its eyes with contentment, snuffling happily as Natasha ran her hand along its head and back.

Natasha heard a small sigh and looked up to see James smiling warmly at her and the little piglet.

"So, how's life at the orphanage?" James asked curiously, passing her the glass of milk and balancing the plate of biscuits on the arm of the sofa, within easy reach of Natasha should she want to take one. "Apart from Katerina being a poo head, of course," he added in a conspiratory whisper.

Natasha giggled as she sipped her milk and reached out for one of the digestive biscuits. She savoured the taste as she chewed on it, closing her eyes in contentment. The girls were very rarely allowed to eat biscuits or chocolates at the Red Room Academy.

"It's good," she said. "Our lessons are very... thorough."

She was telling the truth. Lessons at the school were intense, gruelling even, pushing the girls to both their physical and intellectual limits. The results paid off though. Madame B said that they were studying at a level several years ahead of their peers in 'normal' schools. Natasha and her classmates were proud to be receiving such a stellar education.

"Do you have a favourite lesson?" said James, looking interested.

"English," Natasha replied immediately, a look of pleasure spreading over her face. Deciding to show off, she decided to switch from Russian to English, the change as effortless to her as breathing. "Look! I'm speaking English now. With a perfect American accent because our English teacher is from America."

She smiled smugly, looking up to see the expression on James' face. She expected him to look shocked, confused or impressed, so she was surprised when he replied, with a small smirk on his face, in perfect English as well.

"Very impressive, Natasha!" he said, his eyes crinkling in amusement as Natasha's eyes widened in shock and she dropped the remainder of her biscuit. "Although personally I find the British accent much easier on the ear."

Natasha finally realised her mouth was hanging open in shock and closed it a moment later. "Wow, I didn't know you could speak English!" she said excitedly, switching back to Russian.

James gave her a shy smile as she bounced up and down, radiating joy. "My mother was English, remember? That's why I have a strange name."

Ah, yes, Natasha remembered now. Somehow in the last year, though, she had stopped thinking of the name James as strange, even though it was very obviously not a Russian or otherwise Eastern European name.

"Cool," she said, smiling and reaching for another biscuit.

James passed one to her fondly. Natasha noticed how both her hair and James' fell in perfect ringlets, a trait not shared with many of the other girls in the Red Room Academy. She pointed this out to James, pointing first to her red curls and then to James' grey ones. "We match."

James nodded with a smile. "We do, don't we?" he said kindly. "Would you like to see some pictures of England? I have some in my room."

Natasha nodded enthusiastically and got to her feet, following James through the kitchen to his bedroom. She waited by the bedroom door as James rummaged underneath his bed, before pulling out a dusty looking box and carefully removing the lid.

As he flicked through its contents in an attempt to find the photographs, Natasha's eyes fell onto James' bed, her fine eyebrows pulling down into a frown as she tried to place what was wrong with the scene in front of her. Something didn't seem right.

After about a minute, it hit her and she let out a gasp of surprise, amazed that she hadn't noticed it sooner. "You don't have a handcuff on your bed," she said, her tone half confused and half accusatory.

At this, James stopped rifling through the box, his eyes growing wide with horror as he dropped whatever was in his hands.

"Of course not!" he spluttered, looking appalled at the mere thought of having a handcuff attached to his bedpost. "You... You don't mean to say that they keep you chained to your bed at the orphanage, do you?"

Natasha kept silent, internally reeling and unreasonably angry at James' negative reaction to her innocent question. Who did he think he was to have a bed so strange as to not have a handcuff attached to it, and then have the gall to look shocked that she did?

"Natasha?" said James, his urgent tone revealing that he expected an answer. "Do they keep you chained up at the orphanage?"

A strange pressure built up in her chest and after a small pause, Natasha nodded.

"Oh, my poor child," said James, rushing over and folding her into a warm hug. "Poor little girl. That's horrendous. That's horrific. Keeping you chained up like  _animals_ , they have no right..."

At some point, Natasha became aware that there were tears running down her cheeks and soft sobs coming from her throat, although why she was crying, she could not say. Something about the farmer's reaction to her question about the handcuff had stirred something within her, a sense of wrongness that she couldn't quite understand.

She let her head drop onto James' shoulder, clinging onto him as he gently rubbed her back in soothing circles and murmured words of comfort in her ear.

After a while, the worst of her sobs faded and she found she could speak without her throat feeling like it was too tight.

"Can we not talk about what I said?" Natasha asked quietly. "I want to see the pictures of England, please."

James gave her a long look, his expression serious before he gave a sigh and pulled the photographs from the box.

"OK, little one," he said gently. "Let's go back to the living room."

He led the way back to the sofa, lifting Natasha up onto it when she seemed too tired to climb up herself.

He passed the first photograph to Natasha.

It showed a beautiful gothic cathedral made out of white stone. Natasha stared wide-eyed at the photograph, committing the intricate windows and carvings decorating the towers and walls to memory. It was beautiful.

"This is York," said James. "It's where my mother grew up. Ah, and here's a picture of her."

He passed a second photograph to Natasha, who held it delicately in her hands. The woman in the photograph had the same curly hair and warm smile as James. Her hair was blonde. Natasha wondered if perhaps James' hair had been blonde before he'd gone grey. She found herself smiling back at James' mother in the picture, the woman's calm, warm expression giving her a strange feeling of comfort that she somehow never got from Madame B.

"She looks nice," said Natasha, earning a smile and a nod from James, who passed her another photograph.

They sat like this for another hour, James giving Natasha a new photograph every five minutes or so, carefully explaining the context behind the pictures and answering her questions the best he could. It was only when Natasha gave a small yawn that she realised with a jolt that it had grown dark outside.

James must have seen her glance towards the window because he sat up a little straighter himself, his eyes swiftly checking the clock above the fireplace.

"It's 7 o'clock," he said, sounding as surprised as Natasha felt at this news. "You should go back to the orphanage. Do you want me to walk you back?"

Natasha shook her head as she slowly got to her feet, realising with a sinking feeling that she was going to have to tell Madame B that she had failed.

"No, thank you," she said, polite as ever. "I know the way and I'm not scared of the dark."

James looked at her long and hard, clearly weighing up in his mind whether he should allow her to walk back alone and eventually deciding that the short road between his farmhouse and the orphanage was short and safe enough for him to allow her to go alone without a guilty conscience.

"OK then, Natasha," he said gently. "Remember you're welcome to come back here and visit me any time you like."

Natasha nodded, a smile spreading over her face. She had very much enjoyed spending the afternoon with James and the thought of returning made a warm, comfortable feeling settle in her stomach. She realised, with a not unpleasant jolt, that James had become her friend.

"I'll come back," she promised with a smile.

James gave her curls a little tousle as he grinned down at her. "I'd like that very much," he said earnestly.

Suddenly, as if he had just remembered something, he bustled back into a kitchen, returning a second later clutching a bunch of yellow flowers that matched the colour of his ridiculous-looking rain hat.

Reaching into a drawer, he retrieved a piece of twine and carefully looped it around the flowers' stems, creating an intricate pattern with the string before tying it off in a bow.

"You can have these," he said, presenting her with the flowers with a kind smile. "I was just going to put them in a vase in the kitchen but I'd rather you have them."

Natasha took the flowers gently, looking at them curiously. They were a strange shape, with six yellow outer petals and a central orange structure that looked rather like a trumpet. She giggled; the flowers looked funny.

"What are they?" she asked. She had never seen such bizarre-looking flowers before.

"They're called daffodils," said James patiently. "They're my favourite flower."

Natasha gazed at the daffodils in delight, tracing her little fingers along the stems and brightly coloured petals. Now that she looked at them properly, they were beautiful, in their own special way.

"Thank you," she said simply before turning uncertainly to the door.

James crossed over and opened the door for her, asking if she was sure she didn't want him to walk her home. She assured him she was sure before crossing over to the door, pausing just before stepping outside. Guided by instinct, Natasha put her arms around James' middle, giving him a tight hug before stepping carefully outside.

Thankfully, it had stopped raining, although the ground was still wet. Turning to give James a wave, which he returned enthusiastically, she started walking back towards the Red Room Academy.

The walk can't have lasted long, maybe 5 minutes at the most, but for Natasha it felt like much longer. She was going to have to explain to Madame B that she had failed. Worse than that, she was going to have to tell Madame B that she had socialised with a villager, despite all of Madame B's warnings about them being dangerous savages.

But the thing was, James didn't feel dangerous or savage to her in the slightest. He was a kind, friendly man who, twice now, had taken good care of Natasha. Thinking of his warm hugs, of biscuits and milk, of his colourful, cosy living room, made Natasha feel a way that only Elena had make her feel before.

It was a nice feeling, a warm feeling, a feeling of home.

A sudden crunch under her shoes informed her that she had just stepped on gravel and Natasha's head jerked up to find that, whilst lost in thought, she had reached the school.

Taking a deep breath, Natasha dragged her feet the final steps along the driveway and up the steps leading to the front door.

Just when her hand was hovering over the wood and she was wondering whether anyone would hear her knocking, the door swung open and Natasha found herself looking up at Madame B, who was glaring down at her.

She pulled the door open wider and took a step back, allowing Natasha to enter.

Natasha cringed under her intense glare, taking a deep breath and steadying herself to explain how she had  _almost_ managed to unpick the lock when she was interrupted by the homeowner, when the expression on Madame B's face changed instantly.

"Oh," said her teacher, a smile lighting up her face when she looked at Natasha's right hand. "Well done. I knew you wouldn't fail."

Confused, Natasha looked down at her right hand to see that it was clutching the bouquet of daffodils. Wait, did Madame B believe that she had successfully broken into a house and stolen those?

Madame B scooped the daffodils out of her hand, inspecting the twine keeping the flowers together.

"Where did you get these from?" she asked.

Natasha paused before carefully giving her answer. "The farmhouse just down the road." It wasn't a lie. She was simply omitting to tell Madame B that they had been given to her as a gift, rather than stolen.

"Well done," repeated Madame B, looking pleased, giving her a pat on the head. Somehow, the gesture lacked the warmth of when James had tousled her hair. "You may go to the dining hall. I made sure there was some food left out for you and the other girls returning late from the mission."

Natasha scurried away towards the dining hall. Her heart felt like it was hammering in her throat. She expected at any moment for Madame B to somehow work out her deception, perhaps smelling the scent of her lies on the daffodils, and come charging after her, shouting and promising all kinds of punishment.

But the shout never came. Natasha made it to the empty dining hall uneventfully and ate her dinner in solitary silence, before heading up to her dormitory, collapsing into bed almost straight away.

She appeared to be one of the last girls back.

"You did it, well done!" said Elena, looking relieved when she saw her friend enter the room.

Natasha nodded and smiled weakly.

"Are you OK?" asked Elena, frowning slightly.

Sometimes, Natasha wished she didn't live with trainee spies.

"Yes, just tired," she lied, giving Elena what she hoped was a reassuring smile before rolling onto her side and turning her back on her classmates, suddenly glad to have the bed at the end of the row.

She tapped the handcuff absent-mindedly. James' bed hadn't had a cuff. She had the feeling that that meant something important, but she couldn't work out what it could be.

She considered telling Elena what had happened, about her newfound friendship with James, but decided against it. If Madame B, or someone like Katerina who would undoubtedly grass her up with great delight, found out, then she would be punished for sure.

Also, her friendship with James felt somewhat forbidden. They had been brought up with the knowledge that outsiders were dangerous, and Natasha was having some difficulty assimilating that knowledge with her natural instinct that James –  _her friend,_ a man who looked after rejected piglets and whose favourite flowers were daffodils _–_  was a good man.

No, she decided firmly, her friendship with James must remain a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JAMES: Aww, isn't James the sweetest? Who loves James? I love James! *squishes James*
> 
> DAFFODILS: Remember these flowers, they will return later on in the story.
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "Bullseye". This chapter is going to be a little darker than what we've read so far. Trigger warnings will be posted in the Start Note. Take care of yourselves, my loves <3
> 
> TUMBLR: Don't forget to check out [my Tumblr](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) if you want to get extra teasers and art for Fearless :)


	5. Bullseye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: I will be posting chapter warnings before any chapters that are particularly horrific or likely to trigger readers. Please heed the warnings and take care of yourselves.
> 
> Chapter warning: Gore/violence.
> 
>  
> 
> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/154037123636/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter-5)

1990 – Aged 6

 

* * *

 

By the time summer rolled around, James had chopped down some of the trees that had previously surrounded his farmhouse.

This meant that Natasha now had an unimpeded view of his house from her dormitory window.

She liked to look out of the window each morning and say a silent hello to him. Sometimes she would see him feeding the pigs, or tending to his garden, and she would smile. It gave her a warm, happy feeling to watch him going about his daily life.

Occasionally, he would look in the direction of the orphanage and Natasha would wonder whether he could see her standing in the window.

Her classmates had noticed her new morning ritual of standing by the window between getting dressed and going down for breakfast, but no one made much comment on it. The other girls knew how much Natasha and Elena liked their imagination games and simply assumed it was just another expression of that creative streak.

Elena queried it one time, but Natasha simply said that she liked to watch the outside world, and Elena accepted this at face value.

Why Natasha felt it was so important to watch James, she couldn't say. It was simply a feeling. For some reason or another, knowing that James was alive and well gave her a warm, pleasant feeling of comfort.

 

* * *

 

It was that summer that Madame B started teaching the girls how to fight.

Up until that point, the girls' physical education had simply been about building up their fitness, agility, stamina and strength.

Now, it was time to start teaching the girls the skills they would need for their careers.

As the class did their warm up stretches in one of the gym mat-covered classrooms, Natasha noticed that Madame B had brought with her a large wooden box. She looked at it curiously. Madame B had never brought any props to any of their previous fitness lessons.

Her attention was jerked away from the box by Elena bumping into her as she wobbled on one of her stretches, causing both of them to tumble to the ground in a fit of giggles. She sensed, rather than saw, Madame B purse her lips as they helped one another back to their feet, quelling the giggles as quickly as they could; Madame B did not like giggling.

Once the girls had finished their warm up stretches and silence had fallen in the room, Madame B stood up to address the class.

"It is time for you to begin your combat training," Madame B announced. "Today I will introduce you to the very basics of wrestling, martial arts, knife use and gun use."

A flurry of excitement visibly travelled through the class, gasps and grins and urgent glances being exchanged between the girls.

Natasha could feel herself practically vibrating with excitement. In her head, she was already embarking upon missions, using her soon-to-be-acquired combat skills to defeat enemies of the Soviet Union and rescue innocent people caught up in dangerous situations.

She turned to Elena, who was looking back at her with the same expression of glee and barely contained excitement.

Madame B waited until stillness had once more settled in the room before continuing.

"We will start with simple push overs," she said. "You will be working in pairs, so find a partner."

Natasha and Elena instantly stepped together, giving one another small smiles as they entwined their hands. The rest of the class quickly sorted themselves out into pairs, as well.

Madame B smiled at how quickly the girls had followed her instructions. Turning around, she beckoned to Vladimir, who was waiting just outside the classroom for his cue to enter.

Upon seeing Madame B's crooked finger, he smiled and stepped into the classroom, his blue eyes sweeping across the little girls.

Natasha shivered. Despite having known Vladimir for half her life, the man still gave her a creepy feeling that make her stomach feel like it was twisting itself in knots.

Vladimir approached Madame B and the two bowed to one another, before moving to stand about a metre apart, facing one another.

"In order to push your partner over, you must plant your foot behind their ankle and push, like this," said Madame B, gripping Vladimir by the upper arms, placing her foot behind his ankle and giving him a firm shove.

Vladimir fell to the floor with a quiet huff, his landing cushioned by the gym mats covering every inch of the floor.

"Did you see that, girls?" asked Madame B.

The girls crowded around to get a closer look as the adults demonstrated the simple push another three or four times. Natasha shuffled to the front of the group with Elena, watching carefully, committing to memory the way Madame B darted forward to grab onto Vladimir and the placement of her foot.

It seemed fairly simple, in theory.

Apparently satisfied that the girls had witnessed enough pushes to start practising it themselves, Madame B ordered the girls to begin pushing over their partners, circling to room to observe their techniques.

"Shall I go first?" asked Elena, turning to face Natasha.

Natasha nodded, planting her feet firmly on the ground to steady herself and get her balance.

Elena stepped forward and gripped Natasha's shoulders firmly, grappling with her to get her foot behind Natasha's. Natasha struggled in her tight hold, attempting to shuffle away and keep her feet away from Elena's, which kept jabbing forwards insistently. After about a minute of struggling, Elena finally managed to deftly lurch forward and get her foot behind Natasha's ankle, giving her a firm shove that sent Natasha toppling backwards onto the gym mats.

Natasha landed hard, the impact knocking the breath out of her for a moment as she lay on her back, looking up at the ceiling as she caught her breath.

Elena's concerned face appeared above her, her large brown eyes looking down at her earnestly. "Are you OK?" she asked, bending down to rub her back tenderly and run a hand through Natasha's hair.

Natasha nodded again, taking Elena's hand gratefully as the brunette pulled her to her feet with a kind smile.

"Your turn now," said Elena brightly, shooting Natasha a grin.

Natasha took a deep breath, closing her eyes and gathering her thoughts as she concentrated on remembering how Madame B had pushed Vladimir over with little apparent effort.

When she opened her eyes and took Elena by the shoulders, she thought fleetingly if she had perhaps drawn the short straw in partnering with her. Whilst Natasha was strong for her size, there was no escaping the fact that she was slim and light. Elena, on the other hand, had a more sturdy build. Her stocky body felt firm, thick and vaguely muscular – insofar as 6 year olds can be considered muscular.

As she pushed her weight against Elena, trying to get close enough to wrap her leg around Elena's and plant her foot behind Elena's ankle, she realised despondently that her friend was barely budging under her onslaught.

She felt herself growing hot, not only from the exertion of wrestling with her friend, but also with the sudden awareness that Madame B had come to a stop next to them, observing Natasha's technique with a small frown on her face.

Natasha pushed desperately against Elena as she saw Madame B's frown deepen out of the corner of her eye.

"Elena..." she gritted out, managing to swing her friend around slightly so that Madame B fell into her field of vision.

Elena understood immediately and Natasha felt the resistance against her pushes relent ever so slightly, so that Natasha could actually push close enough to plant her foot behind Elena and push her backwards.

Elena let out a theatrical gasp as she hit the mats, clutching her side as if she were winded.

Madame B, apparently satisfied with Natasha's performance, moved on to observe the next pair.

Natasha helped Elena to her feet, leaning in close to whisper in her ear as she did so. "Thank you."

Elena glanced over to Madame B to check she wasn't watching before giving her a small smile.

"It's OK," she whispered back, before seeing the troubled look on Natasha's face and continuing earnestly. "We'll practice in the dormitory. You'll get better the more we practice."

Natasha gave her best friend a grateful smile and squeezed her hand, before they resumed their stance and Elena once again worked at pushing Natasha over.

They continued with this for another three hours, by which time all the girls were sweating and panting from the physical and psychological effort that had been required.

Natasha had had an opportunity to observe some of the other girls in between hers and Elena's bouts.

Katerina appeared to be the one enjoying it the most, although the same could not be said for her unfortunate partner. Katerina would push her partner hard, her eyes shining with relish and sadistic joy each time her partner fell to the floor in pain.

Tatiana, although her slim build was similar to Natasha's, was surprisingly adept and efficient. Her partner regularly hit the mat within a minute of them starting wrestling, although Tatiana would graciously help her partner to her feet and did not have the same malicious look in her eyes as Katerina did when she successfully pushed her over.

Once Madame B finally decided that the girls had had enough, it was time for lunch.

Their lunch was a hearty meal of meat, potatoes and vegetables. Madame B made sure that the girls ate every last forkful.

The girls would need to fully regain their strength for what she had planned for them that afternoon.

 

* * *

 

Once the girls had finished their lunch, Madame B led them back up to the classroom.

Whilst they had been eating, Vladimir had removed the gym mats from the floor. What Madame B had planned for the girls next would be messy, and the marble floor was much easier to wash clean than the gym mats.

"Sit," she ordered, waiting tersely for the girls to sit down in a semi-circle around her.

Once the girls had settled, she went and fetched the wooden box that Natasha had noticed that morning.

Natasha leaned forward curiously, keen to see what it was that Madame B had brought with her to the classroom. Madame B slowly unlocked the box, seeming to relish the anticipation she was building up in the girls. Natasha wiggled with impatient excitement.

A second later, her movements stopped, her eyes widening in shock at what Madame B had withdrawn from the box. She felt Elena stiffen next to her as well, but didn't make any move to comfort her, her body seemingly frozen solid, her eyes fixed on the metal blade glinting in Madame B's hand.

"This is a knife," said Madame B, somewhat unnecessarily.

Natasha was unable to tear her eyes away from the smooth, sharp blade. It wasn't long, perhaps 4 inches in length and with a simple wooden handle, but somehow it gave off a menacing, dangerous aura. Whilst it would normally be used in cooking, in Madame B's hand it seemed to silently promise violence.

"I am going to cut you, girls," she said softly, her eyes shining brightly in a way that Natasha had never seen before but made her want to shudder.

"The reasons for this are twofold," Madame B continued, as if she was discussing giving the girls extra maths homework rather than slitting open their skin. "First, you must have an understanding of what your enemy will feel if you are forced to use a knife on them. You may not feel comfortable with stabbing or cutting someone right now, but if you are faced with a dangerous adversary intent on fighting, you may not have a choice. Secondly, it is quite likely that at some point in your lives, you yourselves may be stabbed or cut. In those moments, it will prove invaluable for you to remember today and know that however much it might hurt, however scared you might be, you will survive."

She smiled at the girls; a calm, soothing smile that seemed so at odds with the scared, pale faces looking back at her.

"Today, you will learn that pain is temporary," she said smoothly. "That you are strong enough to work through pain and come out of the other side stronger than ever. Do not worry, girls. I will not let any harm come to you today. You will all be perfectly safe."

The silence that followed her little speech was heavy and charged. Natasha managed to tear her eyes away from the knife in her teacher's hand to throw a frightened look at Elena, who was looking back at her with an equally scared expression on her round face. Even Katerina, who was usually thrilled to embrace whatever Madame B had to say, was looking unsure and intimidated.

"Well, do I have a volunteer to go first?" asked Madame B, an amused smile tugging at her lips.

The class, as one, shrank away from her, the collective intake of breath and accompanying flinch almost perfectly synchronised.

"Come now, girls," said Madame B softly, starting to pace around the classroom, looking down at the children sat at her feet.

Natasha slammed her eyes downwards, hoping that if she avoided eye contact, then Madame B would not pick her to receive the first cut.

She didn't want to be cut. She didn't want to see herself bleed. She didn't want to feel pain. She was frightened.

For one mad moment, she glanced at the door and considered running out of the room, away from the Red Room Academy and into the countryside. She dismissed the thought immediately. No one left the Red Room Academy like that. If she tried, she would be dead by sunset, and not because of the harsh Soviet weather.

To her left, a small voice finally spoke up. Natasha looked up and was not entirely surprised to see Katerina with her hand in the air, although her voice shook in a way that Natasha had never heard before.

"Madame B," said Katerina. "I'll... I'll go first."

Madame B smiled and pulled the child into a hug, rubbing a gentle hand on Katerina's shaking back.

"Good girl," she said softly, pushing Katerina's platinum blonde hair away from her face as she rubbed a thumb across her cheek. "Such a good girl."

Turning to the other girls, she reverted back to her usual haughty voice. "See, girls? Katerina is brave. By the end of today, you will all be brave."

The simple sentence sent a shiver down Natasha's spine, the words simultaneously a threat and a promise.

Madame B had knelt down in front of Katerina and rolled up the sleeve of the girl's blouse, holding her left arm in a tight grip as she forced Katerina to hold her arm out straight. After pulling on a pair of blue medical gloves, she reached down beside her, picking up the knife that she had briefly put down on the floor and bringing it up to Katerina's arm. Before she could stop herself, Katerina flinched, her arm involuntarily jerking in Madame B's tight grip as she tried to pull away.

Madame B raised her eyes to look at the little girl, otherwise keeping entirely still. Natasha saw that the woman's eyes were dilated, the black of her pupils almost overwhelming the blue irises.

"You have permission to cry," she said quietly. "You have permission to scream. This will hurt, but remember that you will survive. You are perfectly safe. This pain will be a valuable lesson. Embrace it."

At the last two words, Madame B brought the knife down and cut into Katerina's arm with a quick, clean slice.

Katerina screamed.

Natasha whimpered in horror as she watched red blood spurt from Katerina's arm, the dark liquid a stark contrast to Katerina's pale skin. She felt Elena grip her hand tightly and squeezed back, horrified by the sight of Katerina bleeding in front of them, but somehow unable to look away.

Katerina was whimpering, her eyes screwed shut as the blood continued to drip from her arm onto the floor. With a jolt, Natasha saw that tears were streaming down the girl's cheeks.

Natasha suddenly felt light-headed, stars erupting in front of her eyes as a distant ringing started building in her ears. She felt herself swaying slightly, her skin feeling simultaneously overheated and clammy with cold sweat. She could feel Elena's hand in hers and concentrated on that, screwing her eyes shut to block out the nightmare vision of Katerina's arm dripping with blood.

Natasha's heart was pounding. She swallowed hard around the feeling of bile rising in her throat, willing herself not to faint or cry. She felt Elena's hand shaking in hers and it took a moment for her to realise that she was shaking too, every bit as violently.

After a few minutes, Natasha felt strong enough to open her eyes without passing out and saw that Madame B was bandaging up Katerina's arm tightly. She appeared to have stopped bleeding and had a glazed expression on her face, her blonde hair sticking to her due to the sheer amount of sweat that had poured from her, almost as copiously as the blood.

Natasha watched, her hands cold and sweaty, as Madame B passed the used knife to Vladimir and pulled a new, clean one from the box. She realised, just a second too late, that Madame B had caught her staring, because although she immediately looked away and bent her head to look at the floor, she was soon gazing not at the marble floor, but her teacher's perfectly polished black shoes.

"Natasha," said Madame B evenly. "Would you like to go next?"

Natasha sat mutely, her tongue seemingly stuck to the roof of her mouth as her breath caught in her throat and made her choke.

Panicked desperation washed over as she realised that she couldn't refuse. Madame B would not accept failure. She had to do it. She had to be strong. She had to and Madame B was waiting for her answer and she still hadn't spoken and the panic was rising in her chest and–

_No, no, no, no, no!_

"Yes." The word slipped from her lips, automatic and foreign-feeling, and the internal, terrified monologue that had been going through her head like a steam train suddenly slammed on the brakes, all of a sudden no thoughts going through her head at all.

She sat, dazed, as she watched Madame B roll up her left sleeve and hold her arm out straight in front of her, her mind strangely blank, numb and silent.

 _Madame B was going to cut her._  The words floated through her consciousness, audible but not quite there. She felt as if she had been severed from reality, watching the proceedings on a TV screen and not in real life.

Reality suddenly crashed back to her awareness when Madame B suddenly drew the knife across her arm.

She screamed.

The pain was immense.

The burning feeling emanating from her sliced flesh and the sickening feel of her warm blood running down the underside of her arm combined to make her gag, her heart hammering as she became aware that a keening, gasping sound was coming from her throat.

"...doing OK, Natasha, you're doing so well. Feel this pain. Embrace it. Remember it. What you're feeling now is agony, I know, but it's a lesson you must learn."

Natasha had the feeling that Madame B had been talking to her from the moment the blade had cut her skin, but she only now became aware of her words.

 _Agony_. Yes, she was in agony. She was going to  _die_ from the pain. She couldn't possibly feel this much pain and survive.

Madame B, it seemed, could tell exactly what she was thinking.

"You will survive this, Natasha. The pain will fade and you will heal. Pain is temporary. Say it back to me, Natasha, come on. Pain in temporary. Be a good girl for me."

Natasha gasped as she tried to regain control over her breathing. Now that her initial panic was starting to fade, she was becoming aware of every sensation in her body. The pain in her arm, the warm feeling of her blood on her skin, the hardness of the marble floor underneath her, the way the air tickled her lips on every exhale.

She was still alive, she realised, she was still alive.

"Pain is temporary," she gasped out.

The moment the words left her lips, her throat constricted and she let out a small sob.

She was alive.

Another sob escaped her. Then another and another.

These weren't sobs of agony, however. These weren't terrified or self-pitying sobs, like the ones she had been making just minutes before.

No, the sound that came from her now was joyful.

Because Madame B had just given her the most wonderful gift. She had been telling the truth. Even the burning pain in her arm faded as the truth warmed her insides with its comforting glow: pain  _was_ temporary. She  _would_ survive this. She was strong. This lesson was a baptism of fire but it was one that Natasha suddenly felt herself welcoming most fervently.

She was experiencing the worst pain of her life and she was still alive. She could still see, the classroom was still intact around her, the world had not ended and she was not dying. Pain was temporary. Time would flow and, as Madame B had promised, the pain would fade and she would heal.

A rush of pleasure rushed through her body, making her toes curl as a tingly feeling prickled over her skin.

She looked up at her teacher, who was looking at her intently. Natasha's face was still wet with snot and tears, her body was still shaking, but she managed to keep her voice steady as she expressed her gratitude to the woman knelt before her.

"Thank you, Madame B," she said, gripping the woman's hand tightly.

A strange expression briefly flitted across her teacher's face, a smile ghosting over her lips as her head cocked to the side curiously, as if Natasha was a mystery that she was trying to puzzle out. After a moment, the expression was replaced by one of her carefully painted-on smiles and she stroked the child's damp red hair gently.

"Good girl," she whispered, before finally letting go of Natasha's arm and passing the blade to Vladimir.

Natasha closed her eyes, only vaguely aware of Madame B wrapping a bandage tightly around her arm. She was floating in a sea of endorphins, the sounds of the classroom seeming distant and insignificant as she drifted away into the recesses of her own mind.

She vaguely felt Vladimir dragging her to lean against a wall. The sound of Elena's scream was muffled, as though she were extremely far away rather than just a few metres to her right.

As Natasha succumbed to the warm, sleepy feeling of semi-consciousness that was tugging at her, her final thought was said in Madame B's dreamy voice.

_Pain is temporary._

 

* * *

 

By mid-afternoon, Madame B had cut all the girls and they were starting come out of the post-pain haze.

The haze would eventually become familiar to them.

The fuzziness in Natasha's head had almost gone and she was feeling calm, although whether it was from emotional exhaustion or her acceptance of Madame B's lesson about pain, she wasn't sure.

She had assumed, however, that the cutting would be their final lesson of the day.

She was a little surprised, then, when Madame B stood up and cleared her throat, a signal that the girls were to stand up and give her their full attention.

Natasha got to her feet, swaying a little because of the stiffness in her legs and the not insignificant blood loss.

"Follow me, girls," said Madame B. "Your final lesson today will take place outside."

She left the room, the girls following silently in her wake, all a little paler and quieter than normal. Natasha thought fleetingly that they looked like ghosts; silent and colourless.

They wound their way through the marble halls and wooden corridors until they came to the front door. Madame B opened it, stepping back to allow the girls to pass her and spill out onto the driveway outside.

Natasha gave a gentle smile to Elena, who was next to her. Elena returned the smile dreamily; she too had embraced Madame B's lesson about pain.

Natasha felt incredibly peaceful. Madame B had made sure that all the girls had understood the lesson and come to the same realisation before bandaging them up. They knew now that pain was something they could work through, that they were strong enough to survive battles and torture, that they could trust Madame B completely and that they would be safe so long as they obeyed her instructions. The girls all felt quite content as they stood silently on the driveway, waiting for Madame B to speak.

"Your final introduction to combat today will be to guns," said Madame B quietly.

Vladimir, who Natasha had not even noticed until that point, stepped forward, holding a pistol.

He gave the pistol to Madame B, bowing his head slightly as he did so, earning a small smile from the woman.

"Thank you, Vladimir," she murmured, taking the pistol from him with her delicate fingers.

She turned and raised her weapon to a circular target that Natasha just noticed had been placed in the middle of the lawn. She pulled the trigger, her hand jerking slightly with the kickback, her expression perfectly calm.

"Bullseye!" cried Vladimir.

With a smirk, Madame B walked to the target, where, as Vladimir had correctly indicated, she had shot a perfect bullseye, a small hole perforating the dead centre of the target.

Natasha let out an impressed breath, her eyebrows shooting up as she stared at the hole in the middle of the target.

"One day, you will all be able to shoot just like that," said Madame B, tracing her finger around the hole, before lifting the target out of its bracket and replacing it with a fresh one.

Natasha felt a shiver of pleasure run up her spine and she interlaced her fingers with Elena's in excitement. Far from the sleepy contentment she had felt minutes before, she now felt fully awake and re-energised, curiosity tugging at her as she yearned to feel the kickback of the gun in her own hand.

"Form a line," said Madame B, directing the girls to line up along the side of the school rather than across the lawn.

The girls jostled to form a line, which Natasha found herself at the back of, much to her disappointment.

She huddled close to Elena, who was in front of her, resting her head on the other girl's shoulder as they watched Katerina, who was first in line, step forward.

Madame B handed her the gun, placing it in her hand and showing her how to grip it.

"Hold it in your right hand," she said. "Now wrap your left hand around it to support its weight. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, with your left leg forward. Very good."

Natasha watched carefully as Madame B maneuvered Katerina around until she was happy with her position.

"Grip the pistol firmly, but not too tightly. Relax your fingers a bit." Madame B smiled, pleased with Katerina's obedience. "Now bring it up and align the line of the pistol with the centre of the target. Close one eye if that helps. Control your breathing. There are three bullets left in the magazine, you may use them all. Fire when ready."

Madame B took a step back so that she wasn't crowding Katerina, pursing her lips as she fixed her gaze on the target.

Katerina fired off three shots in quick succession, the sound bouncing and echoing slightly, giving Natasha a funny feeling in her stomach, half way between excitement and nerves.

Madame B stepped forward and extricated the gun from Katerina's grip, before turning her attention to the target. None of the shots had been bullseyes, in fact, one had missed the target altogether. The other two shots were on the outermost circle of the target.

"Not bad, for a first attempt," was all Madame B said, before sending Katerina to stand on the other side of her, away from the waiting girls, replacing the target with a fresh one and gesturing for the next girl to step forwards.

It was almost an hour later when finally the girls at the end of the line were suddenly at the front. So far, the girls had varied in competence from abysmal to quite good. There had even been a few perfect shots; Vladimir would shout bullseye whenever a girl hit the dead centre of the target. No single girl had managed to shoot all three shots as bullseyes, however – not that Madame B was expecting them to on their first attempt.

Tatiana, Elena and Natasha were the last three to go.

Tatiana stepped forward, her usually-colourless face seeming even paler following the blood loss from the previous lesson. She stepped forward, imitating exactly the grip and stance that Madame B had demonstrated. She paused for a long moment, taking slow, calming breaths before firing thrice at the target.

Vladimir's cry rang out from behind Madame B. "Bullseye!"

The girls gasped. Tatiana had shot one perfect bullseye, with the other two shots landing within inches of the centre. There was a stunned silence for several seconds, before Madame B leant forwards and pulled Tatiana into a hug and patting her on the head.

"Well done, Tatiana," she said fervently. "That was very good indeed, the best we've seen all day."

Tatiana stood still as Madame B embraced her, no emotions passing over her face as Madame B pulled her gun from her grip. She walked to stand with the other girls who had had their go, not reacting to the praise and looks of admiration that they were giving her.

Madame B walked up to the target and replaced it with a fresh one before turning to the two remaining girls.

"Elena," she commanded simply.

Elena took an uncertain step forwards. Whilst she excelled at fitness tests that relied on pure strength and force, she was less adept at skills that required finesse and technique, and so she feared that shooting would not be one of her strong points.

Natasha watched as her best friend gripped the gun tightly, crossing her fingers behind her back as she willed Elena to do well.

Elena fired off the shots quickly, blushing bright red as soon as she was finished. None of the shots had landed on the target, a feat made all the more humiliating following Tatiana's stellar performance.

Madame B sighed gently as she took the gun from Elena.

"You will improve," she said firmly. "With practice you will become as good as Tatiana."

Elena nodded mutely, her cheeks still flaming red, as she shuffled to where the other girls were standing. Katerina gave her an unkind smirk as she passed.

"Natasha," said Madame B.

Natasha stepped forwards, her feet feeling shaky, although whether it was from nerves, excitement or blood loss, she wasn’t quite sure.

She looked up and saw that Madame B had replaced the target with a fresh one, although she had no recollection of that happening. She pinched herself hard, forcing herself to concentrate.

Madame B reloaded the pistol and gave it to Natasha.

Natasha's breath stilled.

As soon as the smooth metal of the pistol made contact with her hands, her legs stopped shaking as a charged, almost electric feeling flowed through her.

A feeling of calmness, a steadiness, settled over her.

Finesse and technique were her forte. 

She wrapped her fingers around the pistol, the metal fitting perfectly into her hands. She slowly raised her arms, feeling the weight of the metal in her hands, feeling the thrum of her heartbeat in her body. As she concentrated on its weight, she slowly felt as though the metal was becoming an extension of her body, rather than being a separate entity.

Taking Madame B's advice, she breathed slowly and deeply, clearing her mind and relaxing her hands when she realised they were gripping the pistol too tightly. The sounds around her seemed to fall away as she gazed along the top of the barrel at the centre of the target. The whispers of the other girls, the wind blowing in the trees, all faded to become white noise, insignificant as her focus became the single dot in the middle of the target.

She squeezed off three shots in quick succession, her finger seeming to melt into the trigger.

"Bullseye! Bullseye! Bullseye!"

As the final bang from the pistol finally echoed into silence, Natasha gradually became aware of the loaded atmosphere and the complete silence of the other girls. The meaning of Vladimir's words finally penetrated her mind as she shook her head slightly and focused on the target, which showed only hole, in the dead centre.

She blinked, trying to get rid of the haze in her mind as she looked up, wide-eyed, at Madame B.

The woman silently plucked the gun from her hand, her cheeks flushed and her eyes fixed on the bullseye with an almost hungry expression. When she finally looked down at Natasha, her blood red lipstick was stretched into a wide smile, her perfectly white teeth glinting in the low afternoon sunshine.

"Natasha," she said, her tone simultaneously thoughtful and almost lustful. "You have a talent."

Natasha ducked her head, uncomfortable under Madame B's intense gaze. She didn't like the way the woman licked her lips when she looked at her, as if she were hungry. Madame B reached out a hand and stroked it along Natasha's face. It was an action she'd done on numerous occasions before, but something about the smile on Madame B's face and the coldness of her hand made Natasha want to shrink away in fear.

A petulant shout from Katerina broke the silence from the rest of the class, finally drawing Madame B's attention away from Natasha and her three perfect bullseyes.

"Shooting a target is different to shooting a person!" Katerina was pouting. The anger and jealously were clear in both her voice and her thunderous expression but, as Madame B finally let her hand drop from Natasha's face, Natasha was secretly pleased.

For a moment, Natasha thought that Madame B was going to shout at Katerina, but instead she simply cocked her head to the side and nodded pensively.

"Yes, you're right," she said, before turning to Vladimir with a smile. "Bring her."

Vladimir apparently knew who Madame B was referring to, because he nodded and disappeared into the school, emerging several minutes later dragging a chair in one hand and one of the older girls in the other.

The class of 6 year olds huddled into a tight group as they watched Vladimir tie the screaming older girl to the chair. Natasha vaguely recognised her from mealtimes in the dining hall; she was fairly certain that the girl sat on the table for 14 year olds.

Natasha shifted uneasily, finding Elena's hand and clinging onto it, frightened by the older girl, who was screaming and crying hysterically, clearing out of control.

"This girl is weak," Madame B said loudly, over the sounds of the girl hyperventilating. "Earlier today, she tried to leave the Red Room Academy and live in  _freedom_."

At this, the class erupted into outraged and shocked whispers, the little girls shaking their heads and craning their necks to get a closer glimpse at this deranged creature.

"You know what this means, girls, don't you?" said Madame B. "It means that she is a dissident. Dangerous. An enemy of the Soviet Union."

Natasha bobbed her head in agreement with the rest of her class, her expression sombre. Freedom meant discord. Freedom meant chaos. Freedom fed an unorganised world of danger. It was wrong.

Madame B's words seemed to have penetrated the older girl's panicked mind, because she suddenly sat bolt upright, the rope binding her to the chair biting into her skin.

"No, no, no!" she sobbed. "I'm not the enemy. This school is the enemy! This school is horrific! It's  _evil_! You should be playing games, not learning how to kill! Murder is wrong! Madame B is lyin-"

_Bang._

"Bullseye!"

Natasha stood in stunned silence, her feet suddenly glued to the ground as her muscles seized up in shock.

Her eyes started to water and she realised she wasn't blinking, but even that realisation could not make her eyelids move a muscle.

"Look, girls," urged Madame B. "Don't be afraid. Come closer. You can look. You can touch. There is nothing to be frightened of."

Inch by inch, the girls moved forward as one. Natasha, being at the front of the group, tentatively reached out and touched the hole in the older girl's forehead, her hand coming away sticky with still-warm blood that was leaking out of the hole. She looked into the dead girl's eyes and shivered. Physically, they looked just as they had when she'd been alive, but now they were empty and expressionless.

Tearing her eyes away from the older girl's, she moved aside to let Elena peer at and touch the girl instead.

Her insides felt numb. She was shocked. The class had watched videos of people being killed before, but this was the first time she actually seen someone die in person. It gave her a funny feeling, as if she had an upset stomach.

One by one, the girls walked up to the body and examined it, some of them touching it like Natasha had done, others choosing simply to look at it. One girl was sick, but Madame B didn't seem to mind, simply giving the girl a rub on the back and saying it would all get easier with practice.

By the time the last girl had taken her fill and touched the cooling body, it was almost nightfall.

Shivering from the cold, Natasha was relieved when Madame B finally announced it was time for them to go back inside to the warm interior of the Red Room Academy.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Elena shared with Natasha her theory about the moon.

"Natasha," she whispered, once Madame B had cuffed them to their beds and left them for the night.

Natasha rolled over so that she faced her friend. "Yeah?"

Elena was silent for a moment before speaking. "What do you think happens after you die?"

Natasha thought about it. She remembered the way the older girl had been completely still, her eyes wide and unseeing. "Your body stops working."

Elena shook her head, the movement noticeable in the dark room due to the light from the full moon pouring in through the windows.

"No, I mean what happens to the person inside? The soul?" said Elena. "What happens to all that when the body dies?"

An image of the blood leaking from the hole in the older girl's forehead floated across Natasha's mind. In her mind's eye, she watched as the blood trickled down her face, reaching out to touch it as she had done in real life just a few hours before.

"The blood," she said slowly. "Maybe the soul is in the blood. And when you die, it leaks out and goes into the ground to live as part of the Earth."

Elena was silent for a long while. Natasha had almost given up and assumed that she had fallen asleep when Elena finally replied.

"I have another idea," she said quietly.

Natasha wriggled forwards underneath her duvet so that she was right on the edge of the bed, as close to Elena as the handcuff around her wrist would allow. She remained silent, signalling for her friend to continue.

"I think when you die, angels come down and take your soul in a chariot. Remember the magic chariot in Cinderella? Maybe one like that, but real." Elena's eyes were reflecting the moonlight, wide and serious.

"Where do you think the chariot goes?" asked Natasha.

At this, Elena sat up in bed, looking out of the window at the sky.

"The moon," she whispered.

Natasha sat up in her own bed, turning her attention to the full moon that was hanging low in the sky, large and bright. It gave her a calm feeling, soothing her mind that was racing from all that she had experienced that day.

It seemed impossible that just that morning they had known nothing about pushes, pain, knives or guns.

That morning, the older girl had been alive.

"That's why it's so bright," continued Elena. "Because it's full of souls."

Natasha stared at the moon, wondering if the older girl was there now, her soul making it just that tiny bit brighter.

"When we die, our souls go to the moon," muttered Natasha, turning Elena's theory over in her mind.

After a while, Elena's breathing levelled out in a way that told Natasha that she had fallen asleep.

Natasha lay back down underneath the covers, curling her body around so that she could gaze at the moon.

It was the last thing she thought about before the world started to swim before her eyes and, finally, exhaustion took her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "Christmas" and will be set on 24th December 1991. If you're a history buff, then you may have an inkling of what that might mean...


	6. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/154038738676/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter-6)

1991 – Aged 7

 

* * *

 

One and a half years after they started combat training, Madame B summoned Natasha, Elena, Tatiana and Katerina to her office.

Madame B watched the four girls sitting in front of her silently, a small frown creasing her forehead.

Her employer had asked her for a demonstration of the Red Room Academy students' skills. There was talk of cutting funding to the school unless they were satisfied that it was producing sufficiently talented girls.

She tapped her manicured nails on the top of her desk. The Red Room Academy had always been an experiment, she knew that. She knew that her employers preferred to recruit and train adults who could be put in the field immediately, but Madame B had always championed the use of children. Training children, she believed, would produce a much more skilled spy and assassin that any attempt to train an adult could.

By the time the average adult reached the age of 18, they had formed a particular moral code. It took her employers time to break down those moral landscapes and rebuild them the way the job demanded. She scoffed. Teaching children the way the Red Room Academy did negated the need to break down and rebuild the recruit's psyche.  _Her_ children were being built into spies from the ground up. They were being trained from the age of 5. They had over a decade more experience than even the youngest adult recruits.

Her frown deepened.  _She_ knew the value of the Red Room Academy, of course, the problem would be convincing her employers of it and ensuring that funding for the school continued. As it happened, a perfect opportunity had presented itself. Her employers had asked for her help with one of their most audacious missions to date, one that could, quite literally, change the world.

In her head, she already formed the perfect plan.

She pulled herself away from her thoughts and focused on the four girls sat in front of her.

Natasha, Elena, Tatiana and Katerina; her four best pupils from her class of 7 year olds.

Natasha twisted her hands in her lap nervously as she glanced at the December snow falling outside the window. It was a cold winter, even for Soviet standards, and if it weren't for the efforts of Vladimir and the teachers shovelling snow every day, they would be trapped inside the school.

Tearing her eyes away from the almost hypnotic snowfall, she glanced back to Madame B. It was the first time she had entered Madame B's office since her first day at the Red Room Academy. Her heartbeat felt elevated; when Madame B wanted to see you, it wasn't for social purposes.

"You're probably wondering why you're here," said Madame B, breaking the silence.

The four girls nodded mutely, their expressions ranging from nervous to curious.

Madame B leaned forward, looking at the girls intently, her expression serious.

"I have a mission for you," she said. "Not an internal, practice mission. A real mission, for my employer."

Natasha gasped, exchanging shocked glances with Elena. Even Tatiana raised her eyebrows. Katerina leaned forward in her chair, her whole attention fixed on Madame B, the look on her face rapturous.

"You are to deliver a letter to President Mikhail Gorbachev. You will need to break into the Grand Kremlin Palace, get past the guards, find him and give him the letter. You will need to be as discreet as possible. You must avoid being seen. If you are seen, you are to incapacitate and not kill. Vladimir and I will take you to within a few blocks of the Palace, but from there onwards you will be on your own."

The girls sat in silence as they absorbed what Madame B had proposed.

Natasha nibbled at her nails nervously. Delivering a letter to the President seemed like a very big deal. It was an awful lot of responsibility for a first mission. She wondered what was going on behind the scenes to warrant such drastic action.

"Why can't you or Vladimir deliver the letter?" asked Elena, before cringing immediately. Clearly, she had not intended to ask the question out loud.

Rather than getting angry, however, Madame B simply turned her serious gaze to Elena before replying.

"This is a mission that must be completed by Red Room Academy students. The younger the better."

Apparently unsatisfied by Madame B's answer, Elena pressed on. "But  _why_?"

At this, a small frown creased Madame B's forehead. "Because I said so," she said, a hint of irritation in her voice. "You do trust me, don't you, girls?"

The girls fell into silence as they nodded.

They did trust Madame B. Completely.

This time, it was Tatiana who spoke up. "When will the mission take place?"

Madame B smiled as she turned her attention to Tatiana. The girl had the best tactical mind in her class.

"In two weeks’ time. Christmas Eve," she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips, before continuing on a little dreamily. "If all goes well, it will be a Christmas to remember."

Natasha bit her tongue before she could blurt out that Madame B had always said that Christmas was a silly festival practiced by uneducated outsiders, focusing instead on the two week preparatory period that Madame B was giving them.

"So what's the plan?" said Natasha, assuming that for such an important mission Madame B would have planned it down to a tee.

Madame B smiled, stood up and told them the plan.

 

* * *

 

It was night time on Christmas Eve.

The four girls sat in the back of Vladimir's battered black van, waiting in silence for the vehicle to stop moving as they approached their destination.

About half an hour before, Madame B had called to them from the front of the van that they had entered Moscow. They were surely nearing the Grand Kremlin Palace by now.

Natasha clenched and unclenched her hands nervously.

The four girls had barely spoken throughout the long, bumpy ride, each of them lost in their own thoughts as they mentally prepared themselves for the mission.

Natasha had been running through the mission plan in her mind, trying to think of all the possible things that could go wrong and thinking up solutions to each potential problem.

She was so focused on her thoughts that she only noticed the van had stopped moving when the back door opened and Madame B joined them in the back of the van, a blast of frigid air and a flurry of snowflakes entering the van along with their teacher.

It was the same van that Vladimir had driven when he had taken her from the hospital to the Red Room Academy four years previously, Natasha thought absently-mindedly, before realising that her mind was wandering.

Natasha shook herself. She had to concentrate. Any slip-ups or lapses of concentration on this mission could have dire consequences.

Madame B settled down in one of the seats in the back of the van, observing her four pupils. She had dressed them up in cute little dresses and put ribbons in their hair, a different colour for each girl: red for Natasha, blue for Katerina, green for Tatiana and yellow for Elena.

It gave the girls a sweet, innocent appeal; something that was essential for the first part of the plan to work.

Natasha was fiddling restlessly with the red ribbon in her hair.

"Stop that," snapped Madame B, somewhat harsher than she intended. "No fiddling."

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes to compose herself before continuing. She didn't mean to snap at the children. She knew it would hamper their performance if they were stressed, and it was incredibly important that the mission went along without a hitch.

"I'm sorry," she lied, stroking Natasha's hair in a perfect imitation of affection. "That was mean of me."

Natasha didn't respond, a little shocked at Madame B's apology for snapping at her. She had never heard Madame B apologise for anything in her life. Before she could ponder this any further, however, Madame B started talking again.

"We are parked on Manezhnaya Street, which is about a 10 minute walk from the Grand Kremlin Palace. You've memorised the maps, so you should know exactly how to get there from here."

Madame B picked at the hem of her sleeve without thinking, her fingers tugging nervously at the fabric. She believed in her students, she really did, but there was so much riding on the success of the mission that she couldn't help but feel nervous. The future of the Red Room Academy depended on it.

"Are you confident that you know the plan?" she asked. "Have you memorised the floor plans of the Palace exactly?"

It was too late for that really. If the girls didn't know the floor plans by now, there was no time for them to do any last minute cramming.

"We have, Madame B," said Tatiana quietly.

The calm, focused expression on the girl's face went some way towards soothing Madame B's nerves. Although Tatiana was near mute in social situations, she was always a clear communicator whilst on a mission. The fact that she was speaking showed that she was in 'mission mode', which made Madame B focus on their skills.

The girls were the best in her class. They had done dozens of practice missions in the village. They were model Red Room Academy students. She was confident of their capabilities.

Even if things did go wrong and one of the guards had to be killed, they had all had undergone training to cope with dead bodies. Madame B's lips curved into a smile as she remembered that particular lesson. The girls had all been locked into individual cupboards one night, with only a dead body and their own thoughts for company. After that night, none of the girls were frightened of bodies.

"Good," said Madame B, forcing an encouraging smile onto her face. "That's good. Now remember, be back here by midnight. If you're not back by then, we will assume that you have failed the mission and leave without you."

She looked at her watch.

"It is 9pm. You have three hours. Good luck."

Opening the van doors, she ushered out the girls and grabbed the large bucket of water that had been placed securely in the back of the van. Without any preamble, she poured the entire contents of the bucket over Katerina, soaking the little girl to the skin immediately.

Her blonde's teeth started chattering immediately as she shivered violently. Draping a spare coat over Elena's shoulders, Madame B pointed firmly in the direction they were to go, watching as the four girls huddled into a tight group to keep Katerina warm as they walked as fast as they could in the direction of the Palace.

The four girls were almost tripping over their feet as they slid down the icy pavements as quickly as possible. They knew the route to the Palace, they had planned this and practiced it back at the Red Room Academy almost every waking hour for the last two weeks, after all, but the experience still sent adrenaline surging through their veins.

It was very different to be actually in Moscow to complete the mission, rather than doing simple practice runs in the Red Room Academy. If they got something wrong at the school, Madame B could make them start again. If they got things wrong here, there would be no second attempts or second chances.

They turned the corner onto Borovitskaya Street, catching their first proper glimpse of the imposing Palace. The building was three storeys high; the outside painted white and yellow, the windows perfectly uniform in size and tapered in shape at the top. The roof was green, with an opulent gold dome in the middle, the flag of the Soviet Union flying high from the golden flagpole that protruded from the centre of it.

The building screamed power, control and wealth. It was the perfect home for the President of the Soviet Union.

Natasha was jerked from her ogling of the Grand Kremlin Palace by a particularly violent shiver from Katerina. Glancing sideways at her classmate, Natasha saw that her skin was almost completely white, her lips taking on a faint bluish tinge.

The four girls practically ran the last stretch of the road, dragging Katerina along with them, as they saw, just as Madame B had promised, that there was just one guard at this particular entrance of the Grand Kremlin Palace.

The guard was young, probably in his late teens or early 20s. It was, in fact, his first day on the job, which meant that he was particularly easy pickings for the girls.

"Please help us!" cried Elena, her eyes filling up with fake tears. "Our friend fell into the Moskva River!"

The guard's eyes widened with horror as he took in the sight of the drenched 7 year old girl and the river, clearly visible and unforgiving-looking from their position at the south side of the Palace.

"Please let us in," begged Tatiana, fake tears spilling down her cheeks. "If she doesn't get warm soon, she'll  _die_."

This bit wasn't actually untrue. If Katerina stayed out any longer drenched in water in the freezing conditions, there was a serious risk of her developing hypothermia and dying. But Madame B had banked on the assumption that the guard would not have the heart to turn away the desperate girls. She was right.

"Come inside," said the young guard, breaking every rule in the book as he stepped aside to usher the young girls into the Grand Kremlin Palace.

The guard led them briskly down a corridor, turning several corners until he reached the office where medical supplies and spare blankets were kept. He was in the process of lifting one of these blankets from the shelf when he heard a quiet click behind him, followed by the unmistakable feeling of metal against his back.

"Don't move," said Elena, her voice steady and quiet as she gripped the pistol in her right hand. "Don't make a sound."

The young guard froze instantly, breaking out into a sweat as he started shivering involuntarily with fear.

Tatiana stepped forward and pulled the blanket from his grip, tossing it to Katerina, who had already stripped out of her sopping wet clothes and pulled on the spare coat that Madame B had given Elena. Katerina pulled the blanket around herself gratefully, drying herself and letting the soft fabric cocoon her with warmth.

"Is President Gorbachev in his sleeping quarters?" asked Elena, still holding the gun to the young man's back.

The guard nodded mutely, apparently too afraid to answer out loud in case that broke Elena's no-speaking rule.

"And are there any locked doors between here and there?" Elena continued.

Natasha couldn't help but swell with pride at how well her friend was pulling off her part in the mission. The two of them had practiced this conversation in the dormitory many times, trying to think of all the various replies the guard may give and how Elena would deal with each eventuality. As it was, it seemed that the guard was being most compliant. Perfect.

"The door to his quarters is probably locked," the young guard stammered.

"And does the President have any extra protection this evening?" said Elena, her tone icy and controlled.

The guard squeezed his eyes shut as he shook his head, a tear leaking out of the corner of his left eye. "No," he whispered. "Just the usual."

Natasha and Tatiana exchanged nods. The usual. They knew what this meant; Madame B had told them: ten pairs of guards patrolling within the Palace. They should be easy enough to avoid if they kept an ear out.

"OK," said Tatiana, her pale blue eyes serious as she locked her gaze with Natasha's. "Let's go."

Natasha nodded once before following Tatiana out of the room, leaving Katerina and Elena with the guard so that they could make sure he didn't try to run away or raise the alarm.

According to the floor plans that Madame B had made them memorise, the President's sleeping quarters were on the top floor at the very end of the east wing. This meant that Natasha and Tatiana had to sneak up two flights of stairs and through the criss-crossing corridors to the other end of the building, all without being seen by the guards.

Luckily for them, as there were only ten pairs of guards, that meant that they couldn't possibly see every inch of the Palace at the same time. Natasha and Tatiana simply had to stay to these blind spots and hide whenever they heard footsteps approaching, a feat made all the easier by the fact they were 7-year-old girls rather than big, burly adults.

Natasha and Tatiana slipped silently down the corridor until they reached an intersection that joined them onto the central corridor running through the middle of the Palace.

Natasha couldn't help the little gasp that escaped her lips as she took in the sight of the corridor. Madame B had shown them photographs of the interior of the Palace in preparation for the mission, but it didn't adequately prepare them for standing within the luxurious surroundings.

It was opulent to the extreme, almost obscenely so. Gold leaf adorned the walls and ceilings in beautiful, geometrically perfect swirls. Three-tiered chandeliers hung from the ceiling in a long line all the way down the corridor. The corridor was wide; wide enough to drive three of Vladimir's vans side by side with room to spare, although the polished marble floor had clearly never seen a rubber tire in its life.

Along the corridor were grand, white columns and it was towards these that Tatiana nodded her head.

"We can hide behind those," she whispered, grabbing hold of Natasha's hand and dragging her along towards the first column.

The two girls had just crouched behind it when brisk footsteps rounded a nearby corner, the sound echoing slightly in the cavernous corridor.

Natasha held her breath as the two guards walked past their hiding place, her heart hammering as the sound of their footsteps receded and faded into silence.

"OK," whispered Tatiana. "We have two minutes before the next pair come."

Making sure that there was indeed no sound of approaching footsteps, they ran quietly along the whole length of the corridor. Natasha clenched her hands to stop them from shaking. She felt horrendously exposed running down the middle of the wide corridor and despite Tatiana's assurances that they had two minutes before the next set of guards was due to arrive, she found herself flinching at every dark corner and shadow that they ran past.

At the last moment, Tatiana seized her by the wrist and hauled her behind the final column, the hem of her dress whipping around the beautifully carved pillar just as the second set of guards rounded the corner, a whole minute early, and started walking down the long corridor.

Natasha clamped her hand over her mouth, desperately trying to stifle the sound of her breathing as the footsteps quickly approached their position. They were going to be caught, she was sure of it; her knees were trembling so hard that she was almost certain that the sound of them knocking together would be audible.

Tatiana's grip on her free hand was almost vice-like and when Natasha looked over at the other girl, she saw that Tatiana looked just as scared as she felt.

The guards passed their position without pausing, their footsteps retreating around the next corner without incident.

Natasha slumped against the pillar, feeling the dress sticking to the sweat on her back, closing her eyes to feel the coolness of the pillar on her back. A sharp snap of Tatiana's fingers underneath her nose brought her back to the present.

"Come on," said Tatiana, pulling Natasha out from their hiding place behind the pillar and leading her at a run towards the grandiose marble staircase that swept upwards. Thankfully, the stairs were carpeted, which meant that the sound of their footsteps was muffled as they ascended the two flights that took them to the top floor.

According to the floor plans, just two more corridors and one locked door separated them from their target: President Mikhail Gorbachev.

Natasha fiddled nervously with the ribbon in her hair.

The girls stalked down the first corridor as quietly as they could, keeping an ear out for the guards that they knew would be patrolling nearby. Luckily, these upper corridors were dotted with sculptures and ornaments at fairly frequent intervals, which meant that they weren't totally exposed in the way they had been when they'd been in the main corridor downstairs.

Nevertheless, as she and Tatiana crouched in the shadows of one particularly large, stuffed polar bear as another set of guards passed by, Natasha couldn't help but feel that outdoor missions with plenty of hiding places, even if they took place in the freezing cold, were infinitely more preferable to their current predicament.

Two corridors later, Natasha and Tatiana were staring at the locked door that hid the presumably sleeping President.

"This is your bit," whispered Tatiana, before slinking away and hiding behind a large chest of drawers, leaving Natasha to face the President's door alone.

She breathed deeply through her nose, silently pulling the tension wrench and pick from her pocket and getting to work picking the lock.

It was a fairly difficult lock, with six different tumblers, and by the time the final pin had been gently cajoled into place and the lock finally turned, Natasha's hands and face were slick with sweat.

Running a shaking hand through her hair, she took a deep breath, opened the door to the President's private quarters and quickly stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but after those first few seconds of blindness, she could make out the shape of Mikhail Gorbachev in his bed, his chest rising and falling gently, fast asleep.

Natasha approached the sleeping man cautiously, tiptoeing her way to the mahogany bedside table at the left-hand side of his bed. She pulled the envelope from her pocket, before freezing and cringing at the sound of the paper crumpling, the noise sounding deafening in the silent room.

For a long moment, Gorbachev shifted in his sleep, his breathing changing as if he might wake up. Goosepimples erupted along Natasha's arms, her heartbeat battering the inside of her ribcage, as she watched in horror as the President rolled over to face her.

A light snore passed his lips and Natasha's whole body sagged with relief, before she tiptoed the final few steps to the bedside table and placed the letter there.

Turning to leave, she took one step forward and froze at the loud creak the floorboard made under her feet.

This time, the change in the man's breathing was more than him simply turning over.

The man's eyes opened, searching the darkness for the source of the noise that had woken him from his slumber, before stiffening and instantly sitting bolt upright, his arm shooting out to click on the light that was set on the bedside table.

Natasha stood frozen to the spot, staring at the man before her, her forbidden presence suddenly illuminated by the bedside lamp.

"What...? Why..." Gorbachev seemed lost for words, rubbing his eyes as if to make sure that the little girl stood in his bedroom was in fact real and not some bizarre dream or hallucination. "What are you doing here?"

Natasha's mind whirred furiously. She wasn't sure if the question was rhetorical or not, but she did know that she had to think up some kind of explanation for her presence, and fast.

"I'm... I'm here to deliver a letter," she said quietly, gesturing to the envelope on his bedside table.

Gorbachev looked from Natasha to the letter and back to Natasha. "Explain," he said firmly. "Who sent you?"

Natasha gripped the hem of her dress tightly. She didn't know how much information she was permitted to divulge. Getting caught – and not getting instantly killed – had not been part of the mission plan.

When Natasha didn't answer straight away, Gorbachev pressed on, getting out of bed and towering over the little girl.

Natasha knew that she could easily tackle him to the ground, even kill him, but harming President Gorbachev was not a part of the mission. He was only supposed to receive the letter. Natasha did not imagine that Madame B would be pleased if he was killed before getting the chance to read it.

"Who sent you?" Gorbachev repeated, his voice low and threatening. "I will call the guards if you don't answer me."

Natasha floundered, feeling her face growing hot as a blush spread over her cheeks to the tips of her ears. When she opened her mouth, no sound escaped her lips.

She was about to clear her throat and try again when a man's voice came from the hallway outside, sounding both confused and suspicious.

"Is that a  _hair ribbon_?"

Natasha's hand flew up to her hair in horror. Sure enough, the red ribbon that was supposed to be in her hair was missing. At the exact same moment, two loud thumps came from outside the door.

A second later, Tatiana pushed the door open and stepped inside quickly, the small dagger in her hand dripping red. Natasha caught a brief glimpse into the corridor, seeing two prone bodies lying on the marble floor.

Gorbachev's eyes bulged wide in disbelief.

Taking a step back from the girls, he spoke again, but this time the menace and authority had completely vanished from his voice.

He sounded terrified.

"You're demon children," he breathed, edging away from them until he bumped into the wall, not taking his eyes away from them for one second. "Who sent you?"

His hand brushed against the envelope on the bedside table and he picked it up with shaking hands, looking at it as if it might spontaneously combust.

"Madame B," said Tatiana, in reply to Gorbachev's question.

At this, all colour drained from the man's face, his skin going blotchy white as he gripped the envelope so hard that the paper scrunched into a ball.

"Leave," he pleaded, actually falling to his knees and clasping his hands together as he begged. "I'll read her letter, do whatever she wants, just please leave. Don't hurt me."

To Natasha's amazement, two large tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. At his crotch, a wet patch was forming.

"Leave, leave." Gorbachev had closed his eyes and started to rock gently back and forth, seemingly paralysed by some deep-seated terror brought on by the mention of Madame B's name.

Natasha only stopped staring when Tatiana's hand closed around her wrist and tugged her sharply towards the door.

"We need to leave now," she said, her face expressionless. "The next pair of guards will be here soon."

Natasha nodded hastily, taking the ribbon that Tatiana had handed her and stuffing it unceremoniously into her pocket before running after her out of the room and down the corridor.

Amazingly, they managed to get all the way back to the room where they had left Elena and Katerina with the guard without being caught.

A few minutes after they left the President's quarters, whilst they were hiding behind a pillar in the grand corridor on the ground floor, they heard the guards' radios squawk into life and order all personnel to go to the President's room immediately. They had waited for a few minutes, hidden behind the pillar, before daring to venture out and run all the way back to the room containing the other girls, finding the Palace completely deserted as every member of the security team converged on the top floor.

Elena and Katerina looked up at once as Natasha and Tatiana burst into the room.

"We delivered the letter," said Tatiana, somehow barely out of breath despite the fact she had been sprinting non-stop for the previous five minutes. "We need to leave now."

The girls took one look at the blood staining the knife in Tatiana's hand and nodded, getting up silently.

Katerina grabbed the young guard by the throat, squeezing as hard as she could until he lost consciousness, before dumping the man's body on the floor.

"Let's go," said Katerina, her dark blue eyes determined and focused.

The four of them ran silently down the passageway to the exit, slipping out into the freezing Soviet air one after the other.

Not giving themselves time to pause, they ran down the icy pavements as quickly as they dared, retracing the steps they had taken earlier.

Natasha clung onto the edges of her sleeves, watching wide-eyed as the pavement seemed to glitter as they ran along, every footstep taking them further away from Gorbachev and the envelope and the man's strange terror at the mention of Madame B's name. She pushed her swirling thoughts out of her mind, forcing herself to focus on the present, making sure they weren't being tailed.

A little over four minutes later, the girls were hammering on the side of Vladimir's battered black van. The passenger side door opened immediately, Madame B stepping out and fixing them with an intense gaze.

"Well?" she said, the tension in her voice palpable.

"We delivered the letter," said Tatiana. "But I had to kill two guards and the President saw us deliver the letter."

Madame B's nodded tersely.

"Fine, good, get in the van," she ordered, walking briskly to the back and opening the doors for them.

The four girls piled in, with Madame B climbing in after them. The five of them were barely buckled in by the time Vladimir had started the engine and started driving them away from the Grand Kremlin Palace.

Natasha kept glancing nervously at Madame B, who was sat rigidly in her seat, her eyes staring dead ahead as she muttered to herself quickly, apparently having a long discussion with herself.

Natasha flicked her eyes to Elena who returned her nervous look, the other girl apparently being equally disturbed by their teacher's odd behaviour.

Was she angry at them for being seen? Did that constitute failure? Natasha did not even want to think about what the punishment would be if Madame B deemed that they had failed. She had been explicitly clear that the mission was of vital importance.

After about half an hour of increasingly tense silence, Madame B suddenly smiled, looking around at her four best students.

"I'm proud of you, girls," she said simply. "Well done."

The statement was enough to significantly calm the atmosphere in the back of the van.

It seemed that being seen had not constituted failure.

They had completed the mission successfully.

Relaxing, Natasha's mind drifted back to the terrified expression on Gorbachev's face when Tatiana had mentioned Madame B's name.

Why had he been so frightened?

 

* * *

 

The next day, the whole school was ordered to gather in the dining hall for an urgent assembly.

Natasha sat down anxiously at the table with her classmates, twisting her hands together. Madame B had not said anything to them for the remainder of the journey back the previous night; had not explained the significance of the letter or told them what it said.

In the dormitory the previous evening, Elena and Katerina had wanted to know everything that had happened. Tatiana had slipped back into her own, quiet world, meaning that it had fallen to Natasha to fill in the other two. She had kept it vague, not mentioning how she had frozen when Gorbachev had asked who had sent her and not providing the gory details about Tatiana's killing of the guards that Katerina had demanded to know.

She had very much expected that Madame B would ask them to come to her office and tell her exactly how the mission went, but she did not. Instead, when they had arrived back at the Red Room Academy, she had rushed off immediately to have an emergency meeting with the other teachers.

Now, the morning after, sitting in an unscheduled assembly with the rest of the school, Natasha couldn't help but wonder if Madame B was going to tell them about the deeper meaning of their mission.

Madame B stood up, smoothing down the front of her sky blue dress as the hall fell into silence, all eyes fixed on her.

"Good morning, everybody," she said smoothly.

"Good morning, Madame B," the girls chorused back.

Natasha slipped her hand into Elena's under the table, squeezing her friend's fingers, the familiar touch giving her comfort.

"This morning I have some very important news to share with you all," said Madame B, her expression radiant. "President Mikhail Gorbachev has resigned as President of the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union has been dissolved. We now live in a new country, Russia, with a new President, Boris Yeltsin."

The hall erupted into urgent whispers. The Soviet Union,  _dissolved_? Their entire lives, they had been brought up with the idea that the Soviet Union was a bastion of stability; never changing, eternal and something to be protected and preserved forever. Why, then, was Madame B smiling as she told them of its dissolution?

Madame B held her hand up to quieten the rabble, waiting until silence had once more descended before continuing.

"Four of our own students were instrumental in delivering the letter that helped to...  _persuade..._ President Gorbachev to step down. Stand up, girls," she said, flicking her eyes to where Natasha, Elena, Katerina and Tatiana were sitting.

Natasha slowly got to her feet, gripping Elena's hand tightly and shifting uncomfortably as 300 pairs of eyes slammed onto her, the whispers starting once more.

"Your teachers will explain more when you go back to your classrooms," continued Madame B. "But rest assured, this is a great day in our history. Merry Christmas."

Waving her hand to indicate to the other teachers that the assembly was being dismissed, Madame B stepped forward and beckoned for her own class to follow her back to their classroom.

Natasha kept her head down, avoiding the stares of the other students as they made their way through the maze of corridors.

The letter had led to Gorbachev stepping down; to the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Natasha's head span. How was this possible? Why had Madame B sent them to do such a mission? They were supposed to have been  _protectors_ of the Soviet Union, not its  _destroyers_.

They finally reached the classroom, taking their seats in tense silence.

Eventually, it was Tatiana who spoke up.

"Madame B," she began, her voice hesitant. "I thought we were meant to protect the Soviet Union. Why were we involved in its downfall? Won't this lead to chaos?"

Madame B stood up, placing her hands behind her back as she surveyed the class.

"I lied to you before," she said, the voice perfectly even.

_What?_

Natasha felt her stomach drop in shock. Madame B lying to them was something that she had never even considered as a possibility. They had been brought up to obey her every command, safe in the knowledge that so long as they followed her instructions they would be safe. The possibility of her lying to them seemed obscene, something so inherently  _wrong_ that it hurt to even think about.

"When you were younger, I told you that you were being raised to be loyal to the state, to the Soviet Union. This was a lie. I'm sorry that you were deceived in this way, but you were too young to understand." Madame B's expression was serious, looking at each of the girls closely for any signs of a negative reaction. "Now, however, I believe that you are old enough to understand the truth."

Natasha sat on the edge of her seat, listening desperately, trying hard to keep from crying at the sense of betrayal that Madame B had  _lied_ to them.

"My employers are the KGB. We are the country's espionage division. It is the KGB who you are to serve when you graduate. It is the KGB who you must be loyal to. The KGB has given you everything: a home, an education, a purpose in life. It is only right that when you leave here, you work to pay off that debt. It is your duty as well as your purpose."

The girls were silent as they absorbed this information. They were to be loyal to the KGB, not the state. Although shouldn't that mean the same thing? Shouldn't their goals align?

This time, it was Natasha who voiced her thoughts out loud. "But why did the Soviet Union have to fall? Why did the KGB want that?"

Confusion threatened to overwhelm her. She bit down on her lip hard to stop it from trembling.

"Sometimes politicians don't know what is best for the country," said Madame B. "Sometimes you have to change things for the better, even if the politicians are not themselves ready for that change. Sometimes, you have to be cruel to be kind."

Natasha scrunched her forehead, trying to get her head around this radical new way of thinking.

"Don't you see, girls?" said Madame B, smiling at her class. "Nothing has changed. You are still superheroes. You will still be working to protect the Russian people and be a force for good in the world. Working for the KGB, rather than the state, removes you from the fickle politics and allows you to focus on doing your job – to protect the Russian people, to protect the ideals of the KGB."

Natasha nodded slowly. It made sense, in a confusing sort of way. Except...

Glancing to her left, she saw a miserable expression on Elena's face and yearned to reach out and pull her into a hug.

She knew what Elena was thinking about. It was all that she could think about too.

Madame B had lied to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TEASER: I think poor Natasha has earned herself a little break, don't you? The next chapter will be titled "Strawberries" and will feature some lovely fluffy times with Elena and James.


	7. Strawberries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/154039745546/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter-7)

1994 – Aged 10

 

* * *

 

The Red Room Academy was not your typical school.

For one thing, it did not have school holidays. The only time off that the girls got was at the weekends. They did not have half-term breaks, or time off at Christmas or over the summer.

In fact, the only thing that marked the beginning of each academic year was when Madame B, on the 1st of September, would announce that they were, collectively, another year older.

They did not have individual birthdays.

Part of the reason why the Red Room Academy did not like to give the girls too much free time was that it was seen as a waste of resources. The girls were being trained to be KGB agents, and to get the most out of their education, they could not waste time by taking breaks and being unproductive.

Another reason was that the Red Room Academy did not want to give the girls enough free time for them to start having thoughts, desires and interests of their own. Keeping them busy and preventing them from having such free time was an important part of the programme. Too much free time could be dangerous.

Sometimes, however, circumstances conspired such that the school simply did not have the proper resources to keep the girls in education 100% of the time.

One particularly memorable time this happened was in the summer of 1994, when Natasha was 10 years old.

Madame B was taken ill and there were no extra teachers who could pick up the slack, which meant that, suddenly, Natasha and her classmates were told that they would not be having lessons until Madame B was well enough to return from the hospital.

It was an especially beautiful summer, with warm sunshine, cloudless blue skies and wildflowers in full bloom on the hills surrounding the Red Room Academy.

The girls were given permission to leave the Red Room Academy grounds, if they wished, so long as they did not venture too far away from the village and so long as they were back before nightfall.

It was the second day of Madame B's absence that Natasha and Elena decided to go out for a walk in the nearby countryside.

Earlier on in the morning, the two girls had slipped into the village market and surreptitiously stolen a punnet of strawberries and some sandwiches, and it was with these foods in their backpacks that they made their way up the largest of the hills near the Red Room Academy later in the day.

Their progress up the hill was slow and leisurely. They were in no hurry; there was no mission and no end goal. The two girls were simply enjoying their first ever real experience of extended free time.

Natasha held her hand out to trail it through the flowers, closing her eyes momentarily to feel the brush of the stems and petals on her fingertips. A smile formed on her face, a quiet hum escaping from her throat.

It felt unexpectedly good to feel the flowers under her hands and the sun on her face. For the first time in her life, she felt carefree, without a worry in the world, simply enjoying a beautiful summer's day with her best friend, Elena.

The sun was beating down on them, making Natasha feel sticky and warm. Apparently, Elena was feeling the same way, because a moment later she flopped down to the ground, lying down and stretching out her arms and legs to get as much of her body in contact with the cool ground as possible.

Natasha giggled as she dropped to her knees beside her friend and pulled her bag from her back, rummaging around in it before pulling out the punnet of strawberries.

Plucking one strawberry from the punnet, she skimmed it over Elena's lips, letting the girl's tongue dart out and lick at it, chasing the sweet flavour. Natasha twirled the fruit on its little stem, letting it spin in circles on Elena's lips, before eventually letting go and watching as Elena deftly opened her mouth and sucked it in, chewing on it slowly.

Elena sighed happily as she swallowed the fruit, tilting her hat down over her forehead to shade her eyes as she looked up at Natasha.

Natasha looked back at her, smiling gently. They did not need to use words to communicate, although they did like to talk about anything and everything when they were in the mood. At times like this, however, they were both content to simply sit in each other's presence, silent contentment spinning between the two of them.

They had known one another for almost all their lives. They were one another's favourite people in the world.

After a few minutes, Elena noticed something, her eyebrows pulling down into a frown.

"You're not wearing a hat," she admonished.

Natasha ran a hand through her dark red curls. Indeed, she was not. She had forgotten to take one when they had slipped out of the Red Room Academy, not realising that the sun would be so hot.

"I forgot," she said honestly.

Elena clucked and pulled her hat off, gently putting it on Natasha's head instead.

"You need it more than me," said Elena simply. "Your skin's paler. You'll burn faster than me."

Natasha immediately felt better as the wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over her face and neck, cooling her skin which she had not even realised was starting to burn.

As the girls had got older, their complexions had diverged even further apart. Whilst Elena's hair had darkened and her skin taken on a slight olive tone, Natasha's hair had gone a deeper shade of red, her skin a flawless, almost porcelain white. Elena was right; out of the two of them, Natasha needed the sun hat far more.

"Thank you," smiled Natasha gratefully, pulling the brim of the hat down low to shade her eyes from the sun.

Sitting down next to Elena, she looked out across the valley. They were about half-way up the hill and had a good view of the local area. Natasha could clearly see the Red Room Academy and James' farm, nestled side by side, with the rest of the village a small sprawling set of houses further down the valley. It looked like something from a children's story book, idyllic and peaceful.

"Do you want to go to the top of the hill?" asked Elena, turned her head to squint upwards. "We could have our sandwiches and the rest of the strawberries up there and enjoy the view."

Natasha sat there for a little while longer before finally nodding, lazily getting to her feet and dusting down her dress. It sounded like a good plan.

After pulling Elena to her feet and giggling a little when the other girl pretended to be stuck on the ground, the two of them started trudging up the hill once again, side by side.

Natasha could not remember the last time the two of them had had an extended period of time alone together. They spent all their evenings and weekends together, of course, but there were always the other girls nearby, and even if they managed to sneak off to find a quiet classroom to spend time alone in, an inquisitive teacher would invariably stumble upon them and shoo them out.

Thinking about it, Natasha realised that this was the first time in over a year that they had had several days together alone. The last time had been when Madame B had sent them on a boring but apparently important reconnaissance mission in St. Petersburg the year before. Natasha had liked it, because it had meant that she had had four long days alone with her best friend, but this, now, was somehow even better because they did not have a mission to work on, they were simply free to enjoy one another's company.

Oh yes, thought Natasha, sighing happily, she could definitely get used to this.

The two girls made their way slowly up the hill, their feet taking them ever closer to the top. At one point, Elena wandered off briefly, only to return to Natasha's side a few minutes later, clutching a bouquet of wild red poppies.

"They match your hair," said Elena, smiling widely.

Natasha took the poppies carefully, looking at them with delight. The only other time she had received flowers had been all those years ago when James had given her the daffodils. On both occasions, she was filled with childlike joy and wonder.

Natasha squealed as she hugged her friend, hopping excitedly.

"Thank you!" she said, before her face fell as she chewed on her lip distractedly. "I want to do the same for you, but your hair's brown and you don't get brown flowers."

"Unless they're dead," Elena said helpfully.

Natasha scrunched up her nose in displeasure. She was not going to give Elena a bunch of dead flowers.

"What's your favourite colour?" she asked eventually.

Elena cocked her head to the side as she thought about it for a second.

"Yellow," she said eventually, smiling shyly.

Natasha nodded seriously before slipping away from her friend, diligently applying herself to the task she had set herself.

Scouring the hillside, she came across dandelions, daisies, chrysanthemum, peonies, marigolds, acacia and yellow carnations. None of these, however, quite fit the bill for what she wanted to give to Elena. She wanted something beautiful, yes, but also something that fitted with Elena's personality.

The yellow flowers that she had found so far were perhaps too beautiful-looking, artificial almost. She wanted something simple and understated. Elena was not a showy kind of person.

Getting down on her hands and knees, her eyes finally fell upon what she was searching for. She did not know what she had been looking for until she saw them, but the moment she did, she knew they were the ones.

A bunch of buttercups.

The bright yellow flowers seemed to reflect the light, basking Natasha's hands in a yellow glow as she reached for them. The flowers were small and simple, and the way they reflected the sunshine to throw out that beautiful yellow colour was perfect.

Natasha picked the buttercups and ran back to Elena, who was waiting patiently for her to return.

Wordlessly, Natasha held out the bouquet, suddenly shy. What if Elena thought she was being childish or silly?

She need not have worried. Elena's eyes lit up with joyful delight as she took the proffered gift. Hugging the buttercups to her chest, she pulled Natasha in with her other arm to give her a tight hug, dropping a kiss on her cheek.

"I love them!" she said enthusiastically, holding the flowers close as if they were precious jewels rather than simple wildflowers that Natasha had just pulled out of the ground. "Thank you!"

Natasha beamed back at her, ecstatic that she had put such a bright smile on her friend's face.

The two of them linked arms as they walked the final section up the hill. As they mounted the crest, Natasha saw a large tree was at the peak. It stood there, strong and silent, almost as if it were waiting for them.

Finally reaching the tree, Natasha briefly touched the trunk before turning around to take in the view.

A small gasp escaped her lips.

The view was stunning. The flowers on the hillside painted a riot of colours in the foreground, the buildings down below in the valley looked like little toy houses, and the cloudless sky completed the picture, painting the canvas a deep, flawless blue.

Natasha could not believe that they had never been up there before.

"It's beautiful," she heard Elena murmur next to her.

Lacing her fingers with Elena's, Natasha nodded wordlessly, standing still and letting herself commit the view to memory. She did not want to forget a single colour, shadow or detail. She wanted to treasure this moment forever: just her and Elena looking out across the beautiful view, the heat of the sun beating down on them, the slight breeze rustling their dresses, their soft breathing just audible as they got their breath back after the long climb up.

After ten or so long minutes, Elena touched her shoulder gently, jerking her from her reverie.

"Let's climb up the tree and eat our lunch," she said softly.

Natasha finally tore her eyes away from the view and nodded, turning to the tree.

It was a large beech tree, with large flat branches hidden in a thick canopy of lush, green leaves. Judging by its size, Natasha guessed it must be well over 100 years old. The branches were definitely large and strong enough to support their combined weight.

The girls deftly climbed up the tree, easily pulling themselves up and navigating the branches as they climbed upwards until they were completely hidden from the outside world by the thick covering of leaves. They stuck close to the trunk, as that was where the tree was strongest, and eventually sat down when they found a spot that pleased them.

They had found a particularly wide branch that allowed both of them to sit or lie down next to one another easily, and it was this one that they chose as their special spot.

Natasha hummed happily as they settled down next to one another, pulling out their sandwiches and the punnet of strawberries.

They munched their sandwiches in silence, an air of lazy contentment filling the space between them as they ate their food in comfortable silence.

Once they had finished their sandwiches, Elena carefully lay down on the branch and gestured for Natasha to do the same.

Natasha settled carefully next to her friend, squeezing close so that they were both far enough from the edges that they would not fall out of the tree accidentally. Natasha rested the punnet of strawberries on her chest, an open invitation for Elena to take one whenever she wanted. Popping one into her own mouth, Natasha was not expecting Elena's next question.

"What do you think of Tatiana?"

Natasha glanced sideways at Elena, her eyebrows raised in surprise. Madame B had sent Natasha and Tatiana on a few missions alone together. The two of them worked well as a team; Tatiana was an excellent strategist and Natasha was the best in the class when it came to shooting. Outside of their missions, however, the two girls never really talked. Natasha liked to spend her free time with Elena, whereas Tatiana did not really have any friends, seemingly content in her own company.

Reflecting on Elena's question, Natasha wondered if perhaps Elena was feeling jealous or left out, wondering what her and Tatiana got up to on their missions.

"Tatiana's alright, I suppose," replied Natasha. "I know we go off on missions together quite a lot, but I don't really know her. She's nice enough, but she's not my friend."

She gave Elena's hand a slight squeeze, trying to communicate in the contact that Elena had nothing to be jealous or fearful of. Elena seemed happy with Natasha's reply, squeezing her hand in return.

"I like her more than Katerina though," continued Natasha. "Katerina's nasty."

Elena scrunched her nose in disgust at the mention of Katerina. "Yeah, Katerina's a bitch!"

The two of them dissolved into giggles. They had only learnt the word 'bitch' recently, having overheard one of the older girls saying it and demanding to know what it meant. They liked to sneak the word into their private conversations, feeling naughty and rebellious and very grown-up whenever they uttered the forbidden swear word.

"Yeah, she's a bitchy bitch!" said Natasha, which triggered yet another fit of hysterics between the girls as they clutched at their sides in delight.

After a while, they calmed down. Natasha wiped a few stray tears from her eyes, her stomach aching a little from the extended giggling fit.

They lapsed into silence, enjoying the warmth of the summer air surrounding them as their breathing finally evened out.

"You're my best friend," Elena said suddenly, turning to her side to look at Natasha, a soft smile on her face. "I love you."

Natasha felt a smile spread gradually across her face. She felt as if she were being slowly warmed from the inside out, a fuzzy, happy feeling spreading from the tips of her toes all the way up to the top of her head. Her chest felt tight, as if she wanted to shout or cry or burst into song. She felt happy and warm and safe.

"I love you too," she said quietly, turning onto her side so that she was facing Elena and intertwining their fingers. "You're my best friend as well. You're my favourite person in the whole wide world."

Natasha's words made Elena literally wiggle with delight, her fingers tightening affectionately in Natasha's. The sincerity in Natasha's voice was clear to hear, just as much as Elena's love had been clear in her voice.

"Face the other way," said Elena, giving Natasha a shy smile. "I want to cuddle you."

Natasha carefully manoeuvred herself so that she was laying on her other side, her back nestled against Elena. Elena wrapped one arm around her, pulling her close, using the other to reach up and stroke Natasha's hair.

Natasha melted into the touch, humming softly as Elena's fingers carded through her hair and stroked her scalp. It felt amazing. She relaxed completely, feeling herself go floppy as she snuggled back against her friend.

They lay like that for a while; Elena's arm wrapped securely around her waist, holding her close, her other hand petting Natasha slowly and affectionately. Natasha felt as if she were floating in endorphins, finding herself in a similar state of mind to that strange headspace that she had felt when Madame B had cut her all those years ago, but without the fear. This was a much purer form of bliss.

Little hums and moans kept rumbling up from deep within her chest and escaping her lips. After a while, Elena giggled softly.

"You sound like a cat," said Elena, trailing her hand lazily through Natasha's ringlets. "You're purring."

Natasha shook her head, protesting weakly, which only made Elena laugh some more and pull Natasha even closer.

"I wasn't complaining," she said. Natasha could hear the smile in her voice. "It's cute."

Natasha smiled. No one had ever called her cute before. When Madame B complimented them, she would use words such as 'efficient', 'accurate', 'deadly' or 'convincing'. They were never 'cute'. Natasha quite liked Elena calling her cute.

They lapsed into silence, snuggling closer to one another, intertwining their hands and running their fingertips across the other's palms.

After a while, Elena broke the silence once more. "Do you remember your parents?"

Natasha cast her mind back, trying to reach into the depths of her memory and pull out an image of her mother and father. Her time before the Red Room Academy was hazy. She knew that she had lived with her parents, that they had looked after her, but when it came to actually conjuring up memories of her time with them, she drew a blank.

In her earliest memory, she was sitting in the back seat of their crashed car. She could remember seeing them from behind, slumped forward and not moving. This, however, did not truly count as remembering them, she felt.

"No," she replied quietly. "I don't remember them." She gripped Elena's hand a little tighter. "Do you remember yours?"

She felt Elena shake her head and sigh, the puff of breath tickling the back of her neck.

"No," said Elena, sounding slightly disappointed. "I don't remember anything other than the Red Room Academy. I was a baby when I arrived."

Time was a strange thing, Natasha thought. It was bizarre that they could not remember what they did when they were babies. It was strange how it seemed to speed up as they got older. Looking at Elena's hand inside hers, she wondered what they would become in the future.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" she asked, stroking her fingers over the back of Elena's hand, smiling at the little moan it elicited from her friend.

Elena was silent for a while as she considered her response. Natasha waited patiently, watching the way the leaves of the beech tree filtered the sunlight and cast them in a dappled green light.

"We'll work for the KGB and protect Russia when we grow up," Elena said eventually, a hint of resignation in her voice.

Natasha let out a small huff. "I'm sure they'll give us time off," she said confidently. "And one day we will retire."

Elena made a small, non-committal humming noise. Natasha sensed that she was feeling troubled about something but did not press her to talk about it.

"I'd like to be a writer," said Elena, after a while.

Natasha extricated herself from the tangle of Elena's arms around her and turned around to look at her in surprise. Creativity outside of combat was not encouraged at the Red Room Academy. Elena was smiling.

"I still like to make up stories in my head, even though we stopped playing our imagination games years ago," Elena admitted. "Do you remember those games?"

Natasha nodded, noticing the wistful tone in Elena's voice and realising that she missed those games too. They had invented whole other worlds to play in, imaginary lands and magical animals and superpowers. It had been their own private world, their little paradise.

"Of course I remember," she replied softly. "What have you imagined lately?"

Elena blushed, her cheeks going an adorable shade of pink as she lowered her eyes and bit down on her bottom lip coyly.

"It's silly," she said, turning her face away and tugging at the hem of her dress awkwardly.

Natasha ran her fingers through Elena's dark brown hair. She liked Elena's hair; it was completely straight, a polar opposite to her own wild curls. "Tell me," she said simply. She never thought anything Elena had to say was silly.

"Recently, I imagined the two of us running away," Elena said quietly. "Not to rebel or anything, just to go on holiday. Maybe to somewhere by the sea. I'd like to swim in the sea."

Natasha smiled. They had seen the sea only once, on their dull reconnaissance mission in St. Petersburg. As they had been working, they had not had the opportunity to paddle in the sea, let alone swim in it, but she could definitely see the appeal of going to some beautiful beach, sliding into the water and just letting the waves wash all their worries away.

She found herself yearning for it.

She silently promised herself that, one day, she and Elena would go to the beach together.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" said Elena, smiling gently.

"A ballerina," Natasha replied immediately.

She had seen books with pictures of ballet and had immediately fallen in love with the beautiful shapes that the dancers made, drawing the viewer into a world of drama and passion, telling entire stories with their bodies alone. It may be fanciful, but she dreamed of being a dancer.

Elena hummed thoughtfully, tapping a finger to her chin in a way that reminded Natasha of Madame B. "I saw some of the older girls doing ballet a few days ago," she said. "Although Vladimir shooed me away when he saw me watching."

"Why was Vladimir supervising a ballet lesson?" frowned Natasha.

It was odd, to say the least. He usually only turned up to help with combat training.

Elena shrugged, before reaching over Natasha and grabbing a strawberry from the punnet. Grinning, she teased it along Natasha's lips, dipping it in and then pulling it away before Natasha could bite down on it.

Natasha whined and opened her mouth wider, head-butting Elena's hand in an attempt to get to the fruit into her mouth.

The strawberry accidentally poked her in the eye, causing Natasha to squawk with outrage as Elena gasped before dissolving into giggles when she saw that Natasha wasn't really hurt.

Taking advantage of Elena's momentary distraction, Natasha snagged the strawberry from her friend's hand, sticking her tongue out cheekily once she had eaten it.

They finished the rest of the punnet like this, feeding one another, sometimes messing about and giggling, other times doing so tenderly, gently, calmly.

Once they had finished eating the strawberries, they flopped back down on the branch, lazily swinging their legs as they simply enjoyed the warmth of the summer's day in comfortable silence.

"Did you see the boy in the village that was with his father at the potato stall?" asked Elena, out of the blue.

Natasha's brow scrunched up in confusion as she nodded. Of course she had seen him. She saw everything. Madame B had trained them to be very observant.

"Did you think he was pretty?" demanded Elena, before ploughing on before Natasha could reply. "I'd quite like to kiss him."

Natasha wrinkled her nose in disgust. "That's gross," she said vehemently.

Elena propped herself up on her elbow to peer closely at Natasha. "Have you ever wanted to kiss anyone?" She looked at Natasha intently.

Natasha thought about it. Had she ever wanted to kiss anyone? No one sprang to mind. There were pretty girls at the Red Room Academy, and they had seen pretty boys whilst on missions, but the thought of kissing any of them seemed strange and wrong.

"No," she said eventually. "It sounds revolting."

Elena was silent and Natasha started to grow uncomfortable. Was she supposed to want to kiss people? Was there something wrong with her?

"Does that make me weird?" asked Natasha.

Elena looked surprised, her eyebrows shooting up her forehead as she looked at Natasha. "No," she said, smiling and stroking Natasha's hair gently. "Some people just aren't interested in kissing and stuff. That's OK."

Natasha relaxed, closing her eyes and snuggling closer to Elena, sighing happily when she felt the other girl wrap her arms around her in a warm hug.

Being in Elena's arms felt natural and safe. It was the feeling of home.

Natasha held onto Elena's hand tightly and wished that the day would never end. She wished that Madame B would never return to the Red Room Academy and force them to resume their education. She just wanted to stay in the tree, cuddled up with Elena, forever.

"Will we be best friends forever?" Natasha mumbled quietly, slipping her hand into Elena's.

Elena tightened her grip around Natasha, pulling her close and pressing a chaste kiss to the back of her neck; a statement and a promise.

"Always," she whispered.

 

* * *

 

Madame B still had not returned from the hospital a week later.

Elena wanted some time alone to read a book she had found in one of the older girls' classrooms, which was how Natasha found herself wandering off into the village alone one day.

She stole another punnet of strawberries – it was incredibly easy – and found herself walking aimlessly, gradually gravitating back towards the Red Room Academy.

She was plodding along the narrow road that ran from the village to the school, when she spotted James sitting in his field. He was sitting by himself, not doing anything, just looking up at the sky, seemingly lost in thought.

Natasha climbed over the low stone wall that ran along the edge of the field and started making her way towards James.

He was wearing a faded checked shirt and a large straw sun hat. It looked just as ridiculous as his bright yellow rain hat that she had seen him wear all those years ago. The thought made her giggle. It was nice to know that some things did not change.

The giggle seemingly alerted James to her presence, as at that moment he looked across and finally saw her, his face splitting into a grin.

He patted the ground next to him, inviting Natasha to sit down.

"Hello Natasha," he said warmly. "How are you?"

Natasha gave James a brief hug before settling down next to him, leaning against his large, sturdy figure. They saw one another perhaps two or three times a month, generally at the weekends when the girls were allowed out of the Red Room Academy or sometimes during the week if she was given a practice mission to do in the village. Natasha always tried to sneak over to James' farm after finishing the missions, to spend some quality time with him, before going back to the Red Room Academy. James was the closest she had to a father figure in her life.

"I'm good, thank you," she said, smiling as James wrapped a warm arm around her shoulders. "I'm enjoying some time off school."

She pulled the stolen punnet of strawberries from her bag and placed it on the ground between them, gesturing for James to help himself. He reached forward and picked a juicy-looking one, smelling it with a happy sigh before eating it.

"They've finally given you some time off, eh? Did you tire them out?" he teased.

Natasha giggled as she shook her head. "Madame B is ill," she replied, opening her mouth when James picked up another strawberry and offered it to her.

She ate the strawberry slowly, savouring the sweet taste. James smiled down at her gently.

"What do you like to do in your free time?" he asked, reaching down for another strawberry.

Honestly, the concept of free time was still something that Natasha was struggling to get her head around. Their weekends were technically free, but they always passed by so fast. These few weeks with Madame B in the hospital were the first few weeks that she had had that she would truly call 'free time'.

"I like going for walks," said Natasha. "And spending time with my best friend Elena."

A smile lit up her face as she thought about Elena; of the warmth of her big brown eyes and the feeling of her arms cuddling her close, making her feel secure and cared for.

"Do you have a best friend?" she asked curiously.

She never saw anyone else going to James' farm, and the few times she had seen him at the market, his conversations with the other villagers never lasted long. She wondered with a pang if he was lonely.

James' eyes clouded over as he gazed off into the distance. As he reached out for another strawberry, Natasha noticed that his hands were shaking.

"I did, when I was a little boy" he said slowly, his lips tightening as a wistful expression crossed his face. "His name was Alexei."

Alexei. It was a nice name. Natasha imagined the two boys playing together, running around in the fields and making up games.

"How did you meet?" she asked. She assumed they would have met at school, like her and Elena did.

"In a concentration camp," said James quietly, his hands clenching into fists before he let them relax. Natasha could tell it took a conscious effort to do so.

Taking a few deep breaths, James lay down, settling onto his back and looking up at the big blue sky.

After a moment, Natasha did the same, lying down next to James, snuggling up to his side and looking up into the sky as well.

"Do you know about World War II, Natasha?" asked James, his voice tight.

Natasha nodded sombrely. They had learned about the horrors of Nazi Germany and what their regime had inflicted upon Europe during their history lessons. It served a dual purpose: it taught them the historical facts, and also taught them how to pick apart military strategy.

Their lessons about World War II had unsettled Natasha. It seemed abhorrent to her that millions of people could be treated in such an appalling way – held prisoner, tortured and killed – by the state. She vowed that when she was an agent of the KGB, tasked with protecting Russia, she would do her utmost to stamp out the threats that threatened the safety of the Russian people. She would keep them safe from dangers, as the people of Europe should have been kept safe from the dangers of Hitler’s monstrous regime.

"You were in a concentration camp during World War II?" asked Natasha.

James nodded and let out a shaky breath. When Natasha looked across to him, she was shocked to see that he was crying.

"What happened to you and Alexei?" she asked.

"I survived, obviously," he said, twisting his hands together and shifting restlessly. The pain in his voice cut into Natasha's deeper than a knife. It physically hurt her to know that James had suffered so much. He was shaking. Natasha put a gently hand on his arm to calm him, feeling him gradually relax and still as he allowed her to ground him. "Alexei died."

Natasha's eyes widened with horror. She tried to imagine what it would be like if Elena died. It would be horrific. It would be the most awful loneliness. Natasha shook herself. She did not even want to think about it. To know that James had lost his best friend made her heart feel heavy. Poor James.

"I'm sorry," she said, knowing that the words were woefully inadequate but not knowing what else she could say in this situation.

James sighed, sounding tired but not as upset as he had earlier. "Thank you," he said softly, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

He lapsed into silence for a few minutes. Natasha let him be quiet in peace, knowing that he was probably thinking about Alexei. "I'll never forget the feeling of being held prisoner," said James. "I felt like an animal in a cage. You never realise how wonderful it is to be free until it's taken from you. I love wide open spaces, like my farm. When you stumbled upon me just now, I was just enjoying the feeling of being free, in this open space."

What James was saying was dangerously close to the rebellious ideas that Madame B had warned the girls about. When Natasha spoke, it was as if on auto-pilot, the reply having been crafted by years of teaching and conditioning by the Red Room Academy.

"Freedom can breed chaos and disorder," she said, her expression serious.

James sat up, his large straw hat falling off his head in his haste. He shook his head vehemently, his eyes wide in barely concealed horror.

"No," he said, the word somehow simultaneously a command and a plea. "Disorder is caused when you try to restrict and control people."

Natasha hugged her arms to her sides. She knew that she should terminate this conversation right now, but curiosity was tugging at her insistently. She found James so interesting. She trusted him. He did not seem like a radical or a rebel.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because people aren't meant to be controlled." James brown eyes were wide and earnest, willing Natasha to understand. "Freedom is more important than anything else in the world. People must be free to make their own choices and to live their own lives; otherwise it's not a life at all."

Natasha sat silently, absorbing everything that James had said.

It was so completely different to what Madame B had taught them in the Red Room Academy. Madame B had been taught them that freedom was dangerous and the enemy of peace and order. Madame B had told them not to trust outsiders or believe anything that had to say.

But Madame B herself had lied to them before, when she had told them that they were loyal to the state when in fact they were loyal to the KGB.

Maybe she could not believe everything that Madame B said.

Maybe she should listen to James.

"Are you lying?" Natasha asked suspiciously.

James gave her a sad smile as he pulled her into a hug, rubbing her back gently. "No, little one," he said. "I will never lie to you."

Never lie to her? It was a big thing to promise. Natasha pulled back to look James in the eyes, looking hard for any sign of sarcasm or deception. He gazed back at her steadily, his eyes warm yet determined.

He maintained eye contact until Natasha finally seemed to accept what he was saying, giving him a tiny nod. He sighed a small sigh of relief; the little girl's stare was intense. But he had meant what he had said – he would never lie to her.

Natasha lay back down and snuggled up to James when he did the same. He wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders in an affectionate, paternal gesture.

"What else do you think is important? Apart from freedom?" asked Natasha.

She liked James. She enjoyed listening to his ideas, as alien as they were.

James smiled, happy that she was listening to him and taking an interest in his thoughts. "Honesty, friendship and kindness," he replied, reaching over for another strawberry and feeding it to Natasha before picking up another one for himself.

Natasha nodded. She could see the value of those attributes, even if the demands of her future job meant that she could not indulge in them as thoroughly as she perhaps should otherwise.

They lay like that in silence for a long while, enjoying the feeling of the sun warming them and of each other's bodies snuggled close. Natasha felt completely relaxed. It was nice to just spend time with James, without having to worry about hurrying back to the Red Room Academy straight away. He was kind, intelligent and interesting.

"What do you think freedom looks like?" said Natasha, after a while.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his face split into a big grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling, his whole expression brightening in a way that was genuine and wonderful.

"A big blue sky," he said, gesturing up to the cloudless sky above them. "It's what I was looking at before you came over."

Natasha felt a soft smile spread over her own face.

Freedom was a big blue sky.

She liked that idea.

It seemed very true, and very James.

She rolled onto her side to properly look at the man lying next to her. His grey hair was sticking up in all directions, messed up from lying in the grass; the lines on his face were creased in that lovely smile; his ridiculous straw sun hat lay a few feet away.

"You're my second best friend," she announced, because Elena of course was her  _best_  best friend. "I love you."

Natasha watched as James sucked in a breath, tears forming momentarily in his eyes before he sat up and cradled her close, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

"I love you too, little one," he said softly. "You're like the daughter I never had."

Natasha snuggled up to him, clinging to him gently as she felt her throat swelling up with emotion. It was a good feeling, a strong feeling, one of love and belonging.

Back when she was very little, when she first arrived at the Red Room Academy, she had longed for her family to come and take her home.

When she finally realised that she had no living relatives, she had felt devastated and alone. She had not thought that anyone could ever come close to replacing them.

Now, she realised she had been looking at it all wrong.

Family was not about genetics. Family was about love and respect, forever and enduring.

James and Elena – they were family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, wasn't that nice?
> 
> Teaser: They say the calm comes before the storm... The next chapter will be titled "Love", will focus on friendship and will test Natasha in a way she hasn't been tested so far.
> 
> P.S. I have booked 9 days off work this month, which means that l will have more time to write Fearless, which means you may get the next few chapters extra-speedily, hooray!


	8. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/154295973736/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter-8)

1995 – Aged 11

 

* * *

 

Natasha would always remember her first day of secondary school.

In many ways, it was a day that changed her life.

Certainly, in the immediate aftermath, she thought of her life in terms of  _before_ the incident, and  _after_.

The day began like any other first day of an academic year. Madame B walked them to their new classroom and waited for them to choose their new desks. Natasha and Elena, of course, chose desks that were next to one another.

The two girls were happy and keen to start secondary school. They had stayed up for hours the night before, talking about all the exciting things that they would start learning. They had heard rumours that secondary school was very different to primary school, in some mysteriously undefined way.

They were eager to find out exactly what it was about secondary school that set it apart from primary school.

Once all the girls had stepped behind their chosen desks, Madame B straightened up, waiting for complete silence before speaking.

"This is the beginning of a new academic year," she announced. "You are now all 11 years old. You may sit down."

She waited for the scrape of the chairs on the wooden floor and the rustle of their dresses to quieten down before continuing with her announcement. She kept a sharp eye on the girls. She knew that certain students would react badly to what she was going to tell them next. It was the same every year; they always lost a few students on their first day of secondary school. Good students, sometimes. It was a pity, but it was necessary.

It was an important part of the programme.

"You are secondary school students now," said Madame B. "This means that you are not little girls anymore. You are big girls now, which means that you must learn certain rules that you were too young to understand before."

Natasha cocked her head to the side curiously, exchanging a confused glance with Elena. The last time Madame B had used the excuse of them being too young to understand something before, she had revealed to them that they were to work for the KGB, not the state. She held her breath, wondering if Madame B was about to reveal something just as shocking and world-changing. Perhaps these new rules were the mysterious something that differentiated secondary school from primary school. Glancing to her left, she saw that Elena had seemingly made the same mental calculation, as she was now gripping the edge of her desk in clear anticipation.

"From this day forward, you must obey a new rule," said Madame B, her eyes lingering on Natasha and Elena for a second before sweeping over the rest of the class. "The new rule is this: you must not have friends."

_What?_

Natasha's train of thought stuttered to a halt. Her stomach dropped, her heart rate speeding up as her hands suddenly felt sweaty and clammy. Friendship was forbidden? This was the rule that made secondary school so different? She had to stop being friends with Elena?

No, she thought to herself fiercely. She would refuse. It was incomprehensible.

Her friendship with Elena was not something that she was willing to give up. They were best friends, as close as sisters. They had been there for one another almost their entire lives. She was not about to turn her back on her friend and all that they had shared together. They had a special bond, an unbreakable bond. For the first time in her life, Natasha was prepared to refuse to obey an order from Madame B.

"Friendship is a weakness that can be exploited," said Madame B. "You must not have your judgement clouded by something as trivial and silly as friendship."

The dismissive way in which she said the word 'friendship' sent a frisson of anger through Natasha.

She clenched her fists and felt them starting to shake. Her friendship with Elena was not  _trivial_ or  _silly_. It was not something that could be so easily discarded and abandoned. She fantasised about grabbing Madame B by her perfectly coiffed curls and bashing her head against the desk until she understood the special, beautiful connection that she and Elena had.

As soon as the spiteful thought entered her head, she blushed and banished it. She should not have such wicked thoughts about Madame B. She was her teacher, her mentor, her protector. And yet, the beast in her belly purred when she imagined putting the woman in her place for daring to belittle the value of her and Elena's friendship.

"There is no such thing as true friendship," Madame B continued. "Everyone is innately selfish. People may claim to be friends, but their own interests will always come first. Friendship is merely a distraction. A waste of time that diminishes efficiency and endangers the success of missions."

Madame B swept her gaze over the class, carefully cataloguing their various reactions. Some of the girls looked uncomfortable. Others looked shocked. Tatiana alone seemed unbothered by Madame B's announcement, as she did not have any friends. On the other end of the spectrum, Elena had a deep frown on her face and was gradually turning more and more red, her hands curling into fists as her anger radiated off her in waves.

"Now that you are big girls in secondary school, friendship and love are to be stamped out," Madame B said coolly, unsympathetic and unmoved by the obvious distress of some of the girls. "If you have friends, you must cut those ties immediately. You are allowed to be classmates and allies, but nothing more. Anything more is dangerous and risks the stability of missions. Friendship is a weakness that I will not tolerate in my class."

She glared around at the girls, daring any of them to challenge her. The seconds trickled by. No one did.

After a long minute of silence, Katerina giggled, causing everyone to turn around and stare at her.

Natasha twisted around in her chair, looking at Katerina with an expression of confusion.

A look of glee was on the blonde's face, her dark blue eyes shining bright with spite as she continued to laugh.

"Elena loves Natasha!" she sneered loudly. "I heard her sleep-talking the other night, saying ' _I love you, Natasha_ '."

She put on a high, ridiculous voice as she mimicked Elena, pretending to press sloppy kisses against her hand, the obvious insinuation being that Elena wanted to kiss Natasha like that.

The class laughed loudly, jeering at Elena. Many of them made obscene kissing noises as well. Tatiana sat silently, not joining in, simply observing the actions of the other girls. Natasha felt sick as anger boiled up inside her. She hated Katerina. She hated the rest of the stupid class. They had no right to laugh at Elena like that. They had no idea about the nature of their friendship; it was strong, meaningful and pure, not some soppy, ridiculous affair like Katerina was making out.

"Shut up!" snarled Natasha, wanting nothing more than to pick up her desk and hurl it at the wall. She did not, though; she knew that such behaviour would never be tolerated by Madame B. She settled instead for digging her fingernails into her palms, focusing on the physical pain rather than the emotional pain of seeing Elena being humiliated in front of the class.

As the harsh laughter finally died away, Madame B walked slowly towards Elena, her eyes hard with icy, controlled rage.

"Is this true?" asked Madame B quietly, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Are you really stupid enough to have as big a weakness as a friend? Are you really foolish enough to allow yourself to be distracted by something as idiotic as  _love_?"

Natasha looked across at Elena. Her face was bright red, her dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Confusion, anger and bitterness all warred for dominance on her face. She looked over at Natasha miserably.

Natasha shook her head minutely, desperately hoping that Elena would understand her meaning and that Madame B would not notice their wordless communication. They could lie to Madame B and talk later to discuss how to continue their friendship in secret. She was not going to end their friendship. They could continue being friends in secret. It would be difficult, but they would find a way. They always found a way. But right now, they had to give the appearance of ending their friendship, in order to appease Madame B.

Elena, it seemed, either did not understand the loaded meaning behind Natasha shaking her head, or simply refused to have their friendship forced underground.

She exploded from her desk, jumping to her feet so suddenly that the table actually upended and clattered to the floor with a loud bang. She stamped her foot hard enough to crack the wooden floorboard, the sound echoing around the room. Her face was almost purple as she screamed in Madame B's face.

"Yes, I love Natasha!" she shouted. "So what? You're not going to stop us being friends! You're the stupid one if you think you can get between us!"

The class gasped in shock.

Natasha's mouth dropped open in horror.

Elena had disrespected Madame B. She had shouted in her face, called her stupid.

Natasha scrambled desperately for something to say that could save the situation. She could step in and announce that their friendship was over. She could cause an even bigger scene to take the attention away from Elena. She could have done either of those things, perhaps she should have done, but at that moment, Natasha was as frozen to her seat as everyone else, waiting for Madame B to respond to Elena's unprecedented, explosive show of disobedience.

Natasha held her breath. The second hand of the clock was ticking maddeningly loudly. It filled the silence and made each passing second feel even more excruciating than it already was. Natasha was taken by the irrational urge to jump out of her seat and rip the ticking hand from the clock.

She shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate, half-believing that she was dreaming. Dread and terror were bubbling up in equal parts in her stomach. Madame B was going to punish Elena. Girls had been killed for far less serious infractions before.

Natasha wanted to leap out of her seat and wrap her arms around Elena, to protect the other girl from Madame B and to let her know just how much she was loved, that she would never abandon their friendship, that she would never abandon  _her_.

Madame B was breathing through her nose steadily. It was controlled. Natasha could see her counting the seconds between each inhale and exhale. Her eyes were shining brightly with anger and hatred. After a long while, however, the anger left her eyes. It was slowly replaced by a cold, amused expression.

Madame B smiled.

Natasha's breath hitched involuntarily. Somehow, this felt worse.

"I think that now is a perfect opportunity to introduce you to another feature of secondary school, girls," Madame B said silkily, her eyes never leaving Elena's. "Sometimes, there will be times when you have arguments that either cannot, or should not, be settled through negotiation or diplomacy. In such times, these arguments shall be settled by a sparring match. These matches are different to the ones you have engaged in before. In these special matches, there can be only one survivor."

If it were possible, the classroom became even quieter. It was as if the girls were holding their collective breath.

Natasha blinked several times, trying to process what Madame B had just said. Her heart started hammering in her chest, the blood rushing in her ears so loudly that she almost missed what Madame B said next.

"Katerina, as you were the one who brought up the matter of Elena's feelings of  _friendship_ ," she spat out the word as if it disgusted her to even say it, "would you like to be the one to spar with Elena to settle this issue?"

Katerina nodded frantically, her deep blue eyes shining brightly and her platinum blonde hair bouncing.

Natasha's mind screeched to a halt.

This was escalating too far, too fast. A few tears slipped down her face, but she could not bring herself to wipe them away. She felt as if every ounce of her being was vibrating with the horror of the situation.

Barely half an hour ago, the girls had been waiting excitedly to start their first day of secondary school. Now, friendship had been outlawed and Elena and Katerina were to spar to the death. There would only be one winner. One survivor.

Natasha choked.

It was too surreal, too horrifying, to comprehend.

"Well then, let's move this to one of the training rooms," said Madame B.

She gestured for the girls to stand. Gradually, one by one, they did. Normally, Madame B would bark at them to hurry up, but today she was patient. It was a lot for the girls to process. She knew that they would be feeling many conflicting emotions. The first day of secondary school was always a difficult one.

Natasha got to her feet shakily, tucking her chair back under the desk. Her movements were slow, as if in a dream.

Elena was just a few feet away from her, still standing in the same spot where she had shouted in Madame B's face and refused to end her friendship with Natasha. She had not backed down when Madame B had approached her. She had not moved an inch. Despite the terror that threatened to overwhelm her, Natasha could not help but feel a rush of fierce pride.

She wanted to close the distance between them, close her arms around Elena and shut the two of them away the rest of the world. Her hands finally twitched into action but it was already too late; Elena had followed Madame B out of the classroom and towards one of the training rooms.

Natasha rushed after them, along with the rest of the class, the girls trailing silently through the corridors in a long, straggly line. Instead of being their usual, orderly procession, the girls seemed out of sync, bumping into one another and stepping on each other's toes. Natasha's body felt numb as she hurried along. She stared, dazed, at Elena's dark brown hair, which was swinging gently as she walked, straight-backed and tall.

They finally arrived at the training room that Madame B had selected for this purpose. The marble floor was clear of gym mats. Easy to clean, Natasha thought faintly. She wondered if Madame B had known something like this would happen, if she had prepared this room in advance. Her suspicions were confirmed when Madame B pulled out two sets of gym clothes and tossed them towards Elena and Katerina.

"Change," she ordered.

The two girls stripped where they stood, taking off their dresses, blouses, tights and shoes quickly and efficiently. There was no embarrassment; the girls had all seen one another naked and in various stages of undress since they were toddlers – they always got changed together and the dormitory provided little to no privacy.

As Natasha watched Elena pulling on the t-shirt, shorts and gym shoes, her heart rate cranked up a notch. This was real. This was going to happen. Madame B was going to make them fight until only one of them was alive.

She squeezed her hands and realised that they were shaking. She was afraid. For the first time in years, she was genuinely afraid. Elena was strong, but Katerina was tactical. When it came to fighting, they were evenly matched. Katerina was cruel, determined and ruthless. This would not be an easy match for Elena.

She caught Elena's eye and tried to smile, but what came out on her face was more like a grimace. She placed her hands over her heart, fighting back tears as she stared hard at her friend.

"I love you," mouthed Natasha.

Elena flinched slightly at the words, not through fear but as if she had been knocked back by the weight of them. After a moment, she nodded and pointed to herself and then to Natasha. Her meaning was clear: I love you too.

Katerina finally laced up her gym shoes and stood, silence falling instantly around the room.

Elena and Katerina stood in the centre of the room, facing one another. The rest of the class was fanned out around the edge of the room, a silent, watching semi-circle.

Madame B stepped forward, laying a hand on both girls' shoulders.

"The only rule is this," she said quietly. "There will be only one survivor. One of you must kill the other."

Natasha felt a cry bubble up in her throat. This had to be a nightmare. It was too horrific to be real. She tried to remember the last time she had hugged Elena. It had been some time the previous week, on an evening. They had been talking about a book that they had read recently as part of their English class. But had it been on Thursday or Friday? Natasha's bottom lip trembled. It suddenly seemed extremely important to be able to remember every single second of her time with Elena.

Elena and Katerina bent their knees as they prepared to launch themselves at one another. Natasha watched, the seconds stretching out as if on an elastic band. Elena's face was framed by her dark brown hair, her brown eyes bright with grit and determination. Katerina looked equally determined, but the look on her face was one of pleasure; she was enjoying this.

"Begin!" commanded Madame B.

The two girls hurled themselves at one another, Elena a cannonball of strength, Katerina a sprightly force of agility and finesse.

They wrapped their arms around one another's shoulders, grappling with one another for dominance as they attempted to force one another to the floor.

Elena let go of Katerina with one hand momentarily to throw a punch at her face. Her aim was true, hitting Katerina just below the eye. Her fist came away bloody.

Letting out a grunt of pain, Katerina staggered for a moment before jumping up and wrapping her legs around Elena's waist, twisting her body and using the momentum to throw both of them to the ground.

Natasha watched, her heart in her mouth, as the two girls became a writhing mass of flailing limbs. They were kicking, punching, each trying desperately to gain an advantage over the other.

Katerina's foot made contact with Elena's face, causing blood to spurt from her nose. Elena spat, a glob of blood spattering on the floor, before lunging blindly at Katerina, pummelling her fists into every inch of the girl she could reach.

As the minutes ticked by, the girls tired, their assaults becoming weaker and less precise. The class watched with bated breath as they rolled around on the floor, each focused on inflicting the maximum amount of damage possible. The polished marble floor was slick with blood from the two of them. Their hands, legs and faces were streaked with red.

Natasha caught Elena's eye for a split second, giving her a nod of encouragement. Elena could win this, Natasha knew it.

The eye contact seemed to give Elena a sudden boost of energy, because a heartbeat later she had somehow managed to flip Katerina over and straddle her hips, her fist pulled back to deliver the final blow.

Katerina whimpered, the sound broken and piteous, spilling from her lips as freely as the blood that was pouring from her mouth.

Elena's eyes flickered for a moment, sympathy and uncertainty flashing across her face as her fist paused above her head, unwilling or unable to bring her fist down on the whimpering blonde trapped underneath her.

Natasha saw the instant when Katerina's eyes changed from frightened to triumphant. Her whimpers stopped as her lips stretched into a cruel smile, her hands pressed hard against the floor in preparation to launch herself upwards towards Elena, who was still wavering, heart-rendingly affected by Katerina's display of terror and weakness.

It was a trick.

Natasha's eyes widened, her mouth working too slowly to shout a warning in time as Katerina heaved Elena off her hips and wrapped her arms around her neck, trapping Elena in a tight headlock.

Natasha inhaled sharply, a scream clawing its way up her throat, when Katerina looked up at Madame B, her pupils blown so wide that the blue of her irises were the thinnest of rings.

Madame B nodded once.

Katerina gave a satisfied smirk and twisted her arms, snapping Elena's neck and killing her instantly.

The scream in Natasha's throat died as she stared in shock at Elena, her best friend, her everything, lying motionless on the blood-drenched marble, her head twisted at a grotesque angle.

Without thinking, she turned and ran.

She pushed past the stunned girls standing between her and the door, sprinting down the empty corridor and clattering down staircases as the deep pain in her chest threatened to explode.

The pain was not a by-product of running. She could run for hours and not break a sweat. The pain in her chest was where Elena used to be. Natasha felt as though that part of her had been physically ripped out of her. She could not think. She could not breathe. She could not see; the world seemed distorted, as if underwater – she was crying.

She burst out of the front door and fled the Red Room Academy, running through the hills and the fields, the mud and the puddles, as fast as her feet could carry her. She paid no heed to where she was going. The  _where_ was not important; the only thing that mattered was that she kept moving. She knew that when she stopped running, she would have to face the fact that Elena was gone.

Dead.

 _Murdered_.

The nightmare image of Elena's large brown eyes, blank and unseeing as she lay motionless on the Red Room Academy floor, flashed across Natasha's mind.

Mid-stride, she collapsed to the ground and heaved up the contents of her stomach, vomit dribbling from her mouth and mixing with the tears and rain that were also streaming down her face.

Elena could not be gone.

It hurt so much, too much, to even think about.

Gasping for air, she scrambled back to her feet, uncaring about the mud covering her legs and shoes.

It was raining hard, as if the sky was crying for the loss of someone as unique, as special, as wonderful as Elena.

Natasha let out a scream as she ran. She did not even know Elena's surname. Madame B had not even allowed them to keep that one small part of themselves.

She found herself veering towards the hill that her and Elena had climbed the previous summer and turned sharply away from it. Her eyes stung with fresh tears. She could not go there. The memories that she and Elena had formed on that hill, up that beech tree, were sacred. She did not want to mar those perfect memories by overwriting them with new memories of now, the aftermath; the strange, cold, post-Elena world.

She was not sure exactly how long she ran for, but it was many hours later when she finally found herself gravitating away from the hills and back down into the valley.

Her feet carried her along the little paths, until finally she found herself standing on a doorstep, staring at the thick wooden door that was set in the old stone building.

She hammered on the door, leaning against the wall as she dissolved into a fresh bout of tears, desperately trying – and failing – to keep her sobs under control.

The door swung open and Natasha flung herself forwards, throwing her arms around James and burying her face into his chest as broken whimpers tore themselves from her throat.

James stood frozen in shock for a moment, before gathering his senses and scooping up the crying, shivering child and carrying her fully into his house, kicking the front door closed behind them to shut out the cold and the rain.

He put Natasha down gently on his squashy red sofa, wrapping his arms around her and cradling her close, allowing her to whine and cling to him, her hands fisting his shirt tightly as if afraid to let him go.

James looked down at her tentatively, an expression of worry and alarm on his face. He had never seen Natasha in such a state before. She was distraught, wild-eyed, incoherent. The girl currently sat on his sofa was so far removed from the happy, calm girl who usually knocked at his door.

He tightened his grip around Natasha, stroking her hair in a slow, gentle, soothing manner. After a long while, her cries quietened down and she stopped sobbing quite so loudly, but the shivers that wracked her body did not diminish.

She was drenched and freezing cold from the rain. Placing a gentle kiss on Natasha's forehead, James carefully extricated himself from her arms and hurried to his bedroom, returning a few seconds later with his large, warm dressing gown.

"Put this on," he said gently. "Take your wet clothes off and hang them up to dry by the fire. You'll become ill if you don't get warm soon."

He turned to leave the room, to give Natasha some privacy as she got changed, but as he did so, her little hand darted out and seized him by the wrist, her grip surprisingly strong for a girl of her age.

"Please don't leave me!" she begged, her eyes wide and panicked.

James nodded slowly and sat back down on the sofa, trying to settle down and look as relaxed as possible so that she knew he was not going anywhere. If she needed him there, then he would stay.

Natasha had been watching him anxiously, only relaxing when she was apparently satisfied that he was not going to leave her alone.

James' heart ached as he wondered what had happened that had left Natasha so afraid of being left alone.

Natasha stripped off her soaking clothes, her teeth chattering as she peeled off her tights and dress with trembling fingers. As soon as the wet garments were off and she had wrapped James' large fluffy dressing gown around herself, however, she immediately felt better. The warmth and heaviness of the gown chased the remaining shivers away. She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of James from the material wrapped around her.

When she re-opened her eyes, she saw that James had got up from his position on the sofa and was now draping her wet school uniform on a clothes horse next to the fire.

As soon as he was done, he returned to the sofa, holding his arms open for her to crawl into them.

Natasha snuggled up to him, laying her hands on his chest, allowing his warmth and the steady rise and fall of his chest to ground her.

"What happened, little one?" he asked quietly.

Natasha's hands clenched in James' shirt as fresh tears welled up in her eyes, the pain in her chest flaring up once again, raw and aching.

"Elena..." she said. It was all she managed before her throat swelled up and choked her, cutting off the rest of her words as a strangled moan came out of her mouth instead.

Elena was gone.

Elena was dead.

It was too terrible to put into words. Too horrible. Too raw. Too soon.

It still did not feel real. She felt as if she might wake up at any moment and see the dark mess of Elena's hair on the pillow on the bed next to hers. She would hug her and kiss her and hold her tightly, so that no one could harm her or take her away from her. She would tell her how much she loved her, because suddenly she was afraid that she had never said it enough when she had had the chance. Elena was dead, but she could not say the words out loud because if she did, it would make it real.

"I hate Madame B," she whispered instead, her voice thick with anger and hatred. "I hate Katerina. I wish they were dead."

James stroked her hair softly, a small frown creasing his forehead.

"Is Madame B the head of the orphanage?" he asked.

Natasha nodded tightly, her chest constricting with misery as she realised that she still had seven more years with that wretched woman before she could graduate from the Red Room Academy.

"What did Madame B and Katerina do?" James' voice was steady but gentle, inviting her to talk but not demanding it. Concern and worry permeated his voice and the motions of his hand in her hair.

Natasha closed her eyes, losing herself in the sensation of being held gently, a loving gesture that she could only ever remember receiving from James and Elena.

Her throat clenched painfully.

She would never feel Elena's arms around her again.

"Elena died," she whispered.

She paused. Something invisible, something insidious, was holding her back from naming Madame B and Katerina as her killers. Despite all the hatred that she felt for them, however much she may wish for the worst punishment to befall them, she could not tell James the truth. The Red Room Academy had conditioned her too well to allow that particular act of disobedience.

"Madame B and Katerina... They could have prevented it," she finished lamely, hating herself the moment the words slipped from her lips. Hot, angry tears erupted fresh down her cheeks. She felt as if she were betraying Elena by omitting the vital details, by making it sound as though Elena had died in a simple accident, but the words were already out there, too late for her to retract them.

James felt her renewed shaking and pulled her closer, stroking one hand in gentle circles on her back as the other pressed Natasha's head to his chest.

"I'm so sorry," he said. His voice was heavy with genuine sadness.

Natasha whimpered into his chest.

That morning, Elena had eaten her breakfast with Natasha. They had had porridge and milk, like they did every morning. Elena had been so excited about starting secondary school. 

The ache in Natasha's chest, the hole where Elena used to be, was a physical pain.

"I hate Madame B. I hate Katerina," repeated Natasha, not caring that her voice was cracking and trembling.

James continued stroking her hair as he gave a worried-sounding hum.

"I know you don't want to, but you have to hide your anger and hatred from Madame B," he said, after a long pause. "She runs the orphanage. She could make your life very difficult for you if she senses your hostility."

Natasha almost scoffed out loud. If only James knew exactly what Madame B did to the girls at the Red Room Academy, he would run for the hills. Madame B already made Natasha's life very difficult. On one level, she knew this, but this knowledge was usually pushed into a corner of her mind that she had learned to ignore.

"I can't hide my feelings," she said flatly, pushing those thoughts aside.

James pulled away for a second to reach for a glass of water. He offered it to Natasha, who drank it gratefully. She had not noticed how thirsty she was until then.

James was looking at Natasha with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Do you want to know a magic trick?" he asked, a kind smile on his lips.

Natasha looked up at him curiously. James was always like this, full of surprises and little, idiosyncratic gestures that set him apart as different from anyone else Natasha had ever met.

Natasha liked that he was different.

"Yes, please," she replied.

James settled back down on the sofa after taking the empty glass from Natasha's hand and placing it on the coffee table, allowing Natasha to snuggle up to him once he had done so.

"No one knows the contents of your mind," he said slowly. "No one knows your thoughts, not even Madame B. You can think whatever you want, plot the most horrible things, think the most outrageous swear words, and Madame B will never know."

Natasha took this knowledge and slowly allowed it to sink into her brain. Madame B was so deeply ingrained in her life – dressing her, feeding her, teaching her everything she knew – that Natasha had never really considered the fact that her mind was her own private place. Madame B seemed omniscient, all-knowing.

But she was not…

Natasha pondered this revelation with amazement. Madame B could not see her thoughts. Natasha's mind was her own. It was a private place. She could think about Elena in her mind all day long and no one would ever know or be able to stop her. She exhaled shakily, feeling dazed and empowered.

"You should think about things as a way to work out your anger," said James. "And you can come here and talk to me whenever you want."

Natasha looked up and returned James' smile.

For the first time since she had fled the Red Room Academy, she felt calm and safe.

"Anyway, you'll be able to leave the orphanage once you turn 18," smiled James. "That's not  _too_ long, in the grand scheme of things."

Natasha felt a pang in her stomach, longing for the day to come when she would finally be away from the Red Room Academy, away from Madame B and Katerina.

The two of them were silent for a while, the crackling of the fire and their own steady breathing the only sounds filling the small, cosy living room. Natasha's gaze slipped to the window. It was night-time; the sky was an inky black, the full moon shining brightly.

Natasha let out a strangled gasp.

The moon...

"Elena believed that when you died, angels came down and took you in a chariot to live on the moon," she said, her eyes stinging as she remembered how serious Elena's expression had been as she had shared this theory with Natasha all those years ago. The theory was so unique, so distinctive, so  _Elena_.

"Maybe Elena's on the moon now," James whispered gently, tightening his arm around her as he rested his head on the back of the sofa to gaze out of the window at the bright, round moon.

Natasha stared at the moon until her eyes hurt. Even then, she only closed her eyes momentarily, seeing the round disk burned into her retinas, before opening them again to continue to gaze at the perfectly round orb.

The moon was bright, perhaps brighter tonight due to the addition of one more vibrant soul.

Natasha's heart ached for Elena. Elena, who was kind, and clever, and funny. Elena, who had been the only girl to make her feel welcome at the Red Room Academy when she had first arrived. Elena, who had shared with her her most intimate thoughts, like her theory that people went to the moon after they died. Elena, who had shared with her strawberries and whispered promises that they would be best friends forever. Elena, who did not have a surname but did not need one because she was spectacular, unique and special – truly one of a kind.

Natasha's hand reached out towards the moon, wishing that she could touch Elena just one more time, hear her laugh, feel her warm breath on her skin.

Elena was dead.

The truth hit her like a freight train, smashing though her mind and making her gasp for air.

She curled into a ball, tuning out everything, tuning out James, as her heart swelled, stuttered and finally broke with grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you think Natasha will react to the death of Elena?
> 
> Teaser: Avengers fans may recall that Loki at one point taunts Natasha with the line "Can you wipe out that much red? Drakov's daughter, Sao Paulo, the hospital fire?", implying that these are all bloody events from Natasha's past that she regrets. The next chapter will be titled "Drakov's Daughter" and will explore that particular event. It will be dark...


	9. Drakov's Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Graphic violence/torture.
> 
> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/154554050541/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter-9)

1996 – Aged 12

 

* * *

 

Natasha threw herself into her studies to cope with the loss of Elena.

It did not numb the pain entirely, it did not diminish the love she still felt for Elena, or the hatred she had for Madame B, but it provided her with a distraction.

It ensured that she was able to get through each day without snapping or losing control or crumbling apart. Devoting herself to her studies gave her a sense of purpose, a reason to get up every morning, a goal to work towards.

Madame B was surprised and pleased at the change in Natasha's behaviour over the last year and a half. Whereas before, the girl had been warm and friendly (a particularly disgusting weakness), the new Natasha was distant and aloof, coming to life only in her studies, her eyes otherwise blank and expressionless.

Natasha was flourishing in secondary school. She was excelling, far outstripping all the other students in the class, apart from Tatiana, for attainment.

Tatiana and Natasha were her prize students. Madame B smiled fondly as she watched the girls silently scribbling at their desks, their heads bent as they wrote essays on the advantages and disadvantages of taking hostages.

Madame B had formed a strong teacher/student bond with Natasha in the last year and a half. The night Elena had been killed, Natasha had returned to the Red Room Academy at around midnight, her eyes red but her behaviour strangely compliant when Madame B had ordered her to go to bed without waking the other girls.

Sometimes, she felt a hostile energy coming from the girl, but for the most part, Natasha was a good and dutiful student: obedient, attentive, intelligent and increasingly ruthless.

Natasha shifted in her seat, briefly looking up to see Madame B staring at her. She ducked her head down, re-focusing her attention on her essay.

The last year and a half had been tiring and colourless for her. There had been no joy in the last 18 months. She missed Elena desperately, missed the sound of her voice, missed the way they would talk about anything and everything, missed the warmth that their friendship had provided.

She had no desire to form friendships with any of the other girls, however. Friendship, for Natasha, was now associated in her mind with acute pain. She had been friends with Elena and had suffered horribly when she had died. She had no desire to repeat that experience with any of her other classmates. She still saw James once or twice a month, but her visits had become increasingly shorter and less frequent as she now spent so much of her free time practicing combat or delving into her linguistic and academic studies.

Half an hour later, the bell rang to mark the end of the hour and Natasha put her pen down with a sigh, passing her essay to Madame B as the woman made her way along the rows of desks.

Madame B dismissed the class.

Natasha slowly made her way outside, blinking slightly in the bright April sunlight.

Around her, the primary school children played with innocent abandon.

Natasha watched as two little girls giggled and held hands as they ran around, pretending to be spies or superheroes or magicians.

She bit her lip, her throat suddenly tight, and turned away.

 

* * *

  
Their next lesson was Russian.

"In today's lesson, we will be studying poetry," said Madame B.

She stood at the front of the class, the poetry book held dramatically in her outstretched hand, her head held high, as if she were reciting the words to a theatre full of paying audience members rather than a class of 12 year olds.

"This is a poem called 'Confession' by the 19th century Russian poet Alexander Pushkin," she announced.

" _I love you – though it makes me beat,_  
_Though vain it seems, and melancholy –_  
_Yet to this shameless, hapless folly_  
_I'll be confessing at your feet._

_It ill becomes me: that I'm older,_  
_Time I should be more sensible._  
_And yet the frivolous disorder_  
_Fills every jitter of my soul._

_Say you'll be gone – I'm jaded, yawning;_  
_You're back – I'm sad, I suffer through –_  
_Yet how can I be clear, from owning,_  
_My angel, all my care for you!_

_When off the stairs your weightless footfall,_  
_Your dress's rustle, reaches me,_  
_Your voice, as maidenly, as youthful –_  
_I lose my senses instantly._

_You smile at me – I'm glad, immensely;_  
_Ignore me – and I'm sad, again;_  
_Your pallid hand will recompense me_  
_For the whole day of utter pain._

_When you're embroidering, or setting_  
_Your eye on something fair, or letting_  
_Your hair amuse you – I'm beguiled;_  
_In silence, reddening, all forgetting_  
_I watch you like a spellbound child._

_But then how wretched my existence,_  
_How desolate my jealous pain,_  
_When you set out into the distance_  
_To wander in the cold and rain;_  
_And then your solitary grievings,_  
_Or, in the corner, twosome talks,_  
_Or twosome piano in the evenings,_  
_Or twosome trips, or twosome walks._

_Alina! Just a little mercy –_  
_I dare not even mention love:_  
_For sins I have been guilty of,_  
_My angel, of your care unworthy._

_But feign it! All can be achieved_  
_By that absorbing gaze, believe me._

_Oh, it takes little to deceive me –_  
_I cannot wait to be deceived!"_

Natasha sat spellbound.

She felt frozen to her chair, as if the last waves of the poem were washing around her, a powerful current pulling her downwards, immobilising her.

The words spoke to her in a way that nothing else ever had. They felt true to her on a deep, meaningful level; on the level of her soul. The words spoke the language of the heart, more mysterious, beautiful and unknowable than Russian, English, French or any of the other languages they taught here at the Red Room Academy.

It was the honest, raw, naked and beautiful.

Madame B snapped the book shut, tossing it to the floor and kicking it carelessly into the corner of the room.

"That," she said dismissively, "was garbage."

Natasha clenched her fists, taken by the sudden, irrational urge to jump up and defend the poetic prose. 

_Love... the frivolous disorder fills every jitter of my soul._

Anger swirled wildly inside Natasha. Madame B must be dead inside to not understand the meaning of the poem; that love, as silly and irrational and chaotic as it may be, was worth every second, every iota.

_I'm beguiled... I watch you like a spellbound child... Alina..._

Elena _..._

Natasha bit down hard on her bottom lip, the taste of blood filling her mouth.

"Poetry is pointless, whimsical and stupid," said Madame B. "It is a waste of time. What exactly is achieved by writing down those silly little lines? Nothing. It is a great shame, an abomination, that our country has thought it worthwhile to waste the talents of intelligent men and women on such ridiculous activities as  _poetry_."

The way she said the way 'poetry' reminded Natasha of the way she had said 'friendship' on their first day of secondary school. It was dismissive, disgusted, derisive.

"There is, however, poetry in action," continued Madame B.

Natasha felt her heartbeat gradually slow down as she cocked her head to the side curiously.

Poetry in action?

"There is poetic beauty in punishing people in a way that matches their crime," said Madame B. "Killing a killer, raping a rapist, stealing from a thief. These are all simple examples of poetry in action. Simple, but beautiful. The more poetically-minded of you may be able to think of more advanced, abstract examples too."

She paused, waiting for any of the girls to offer up an example.

No one volunteered.

"Creativity is not encouraged here at the Red Room Academy, especially the creative arts, but in this case, I can make an exception," she continued. "Poetry in action – that is, punishing a person in a way that is fitting for their crime – is a very effective way of sending a message to an opponent. It will stick in their mind far longer than a sterile, generic punishment."

Madame B crossed the classroom and picked up the poetry book from the floor, placing it carefully back in her desk drawer and locking it.

Natasha found herself yearning to steal the book, to drink in the words on the pages and commit them to memory.

When she looked up, she saw Madame B was watching her carefully, a strange, unreadable expression on her face.

"Class dismissed," said Madame B, suddenly turning her back on the girls, as if unable to look at them.

The girls trooped out of the classroom, leaving Madame B alone.

She chewed her lip nervously.

She had seen the hungry look on Natasha's face as she had read out the poem. It troubled her to know that the girl still had that wild, untamed streak. It had been expressing itself less and less since Elena's death, but occasionally, Madame B would see the passion in her eyes, a fire that lit up her green eyes fiercely.

It had always been there, in a way that was lacking in the other girls. Madame B hypothesised that it was due to the fact that Natasha had spent the first three years of her life outside the Red Room Academy.

They had not been there to shape her mind and experiences in those important, formative years. She had been brought up in that dangerous, uncontrolled way that the masses were so fond of.

Madame B was thrilled with Natasha's progress, especially in the last 18 months, but she trusted Natasha far less than she trusted any of the other girls. That wild streak that had loved Elena and apparently adored poetry made her nervous. Those traits should not exist. They were not a part of the programme.

Madame B vowed to keep a more watchful eye on Natasha.

It was just a precaution.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Madame B summoned Natasha and Tatiana to her office and gave them a mission.

The mission parameters were simple enough. They were to kill Valentina Drakova, the 8-year-old daughter of an ex-KGB spy named Sergei Drakov. Sergei had betrayed the KGB by selling secrets to the British intelligence agency MI6.

The KGB did not tolerate traitors.

The killing of his daughter was to be his punishment.

"The KGB has some special requirements for this mission," continued Madame B, flicking through the notes that had been left on her desk by her superior officer. "Valentina must be killed in a gruesome way; a way that will leave her body bloody and deformed. Her corpse must be as visually horrifying as possible, and you must place the body in a place where her father will find her easily. The KGB really wants to make her father suffer for selling secrets to the British."

She put down the file and looked at the two girls over the top of her glasses.

They were sitting silently on the other side of the desk, the expressions cool and neutral.

"Does that sound acceptable to you both?" she asked, watching them closely. Both of them had killed people before. However, all their previous targets had been adults.

The girls nodded.

"Yes, Madame B," they said in unison.

Madame B smiled.

Natasha and Tatiana were her two best students. She was looking forward to seeing the results of this mission. The girls had never been instructed to be gruesome before. She was curious and interested to see the kinds of creative things they would do to the little girl.

"Excellent," she said brightly, pulling two backpacks from under her desk and tossing them to the girls. "These contain everything you should need. We will leave in 10 minutes."

Natasha opened the backpack curiously, keen to see what they were being equipped with. Inside the bag were towels, a spare set of clothes, train tickets, a beautiful doll and a large knife sheathed in a blade guard. There was also a small piece of paper on which was written an address in St. Petersburg. Natasha could only assume that this was where the Drakovs lived. Tatiana had also opened her bag. Taking a peak into the other girl's bag, Natasha saw that Tatiana had been equipped with the exact same set of items.

They closed the bags and slung them onto their backs, trudging with Madame B to the cloakroom to grab their coats.

When they arrived there, however, Madame B had one more surprise for them.

She handed them beautiful, posh dresses – all frills and lace and detailed embroidery. Natasha's was predominantly red and white, whereas Tatiana's was predominantly green and white. They vaguely reminded Natasha of the dresses they had been given for the Grand Kremlin Palace mission on Christmas Eve all those years before.

"Put these on," she said simply, before watching them strip out of their normal school uniforms into the tailor-made dresses.

"Very nice," she murmured, as the girls finished getting changed, trailing a hand along the hems of the dresses. They really were beautifully-made items of clothing.

Natasha blushed, feeling strangely vulnerable under the woman's intense gaze.

Wordlessly, Madame B handed the girls warm coats and left the cloakroom, gesturing for them to follow her.

Natasha and Tatiana pulled on their coats and bags and hurried after their teacher.

Reaching the entrance hall, they found Vladimir was waiting for them by the front door, twirling the keys for his van around his finger as he leaned against the wall.

"We will take you to the closest train station," Madame B explained. "You will need to travel to St. Petersburg and back by yourselves. Your train tickets are in your bags. Vladimir will meet you at the train station when you return and drive you back here. Do you understand, girls?"

Natasha and Tatiana nodded, earning a quick smile from Madame B before she pulled open the front door and ushered them outside.

The adults followed them down the steps.

Natasha stopped short when she saw the van. Vladimir's van was supposed to be black, with only two seats at the front, the back being a windowless storage space which happened to have benches squeezed in at the sides.

The van that was in fact waiting for them was white and more of a mini-bus than anything else, with nine seats and windows all the way to the back.

Vladimir saw her staring at the new vehicle and grunted.

"The old van was attracting more attention than we wanted," he said shortly.

Natasha knew better than to expect Vladimir to elaborate on his answer. He was not a talkative man. Nodding politely, Natasha climbed in through a side door and took a seat behind Madame B, on the right hand side of the vehicle. Tatiana slid in beside her.

Once they had all buckled up their seat belts, Vladimir slowly drove the van down the gravel drive of the Red Room Academy and down the narrow lane that took them towards the village.

As they slowly drove past James' farm on the right hand side, the farmer looked up from where he was in his field and waved energetically at Natasha, his face splitting into a large, warm grin.

Natasha waved back weakly, a deep blush colouring her cheeks as she felt the other occupants of the van turning their attention to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tatiana staring unashamedly. Madame B twisted around in her seat to glare suspiciously at Natasha.

"The farmer isn't your  _friend_ , is he?" she asked icily.

The tone of voice in which she said the word 'friend' made Natasha feel as though the bottom had dropped out of her stomach. Her hands prickled with sweat as her stomach churned anxiously.

"No," she said quickly, before taking a deep breath, trying to regain a calm composure. "He sometimes gives me free food. I use him for that, that's all."

She tried to sound as casual and dismissive as possible as the lie slipped from her lips.

Madame B gave her a scrutinising stare, her eyes narrowed. Natasha stared back calmly, forcing herself to remember James' reassurance that Madame B could not read her mind. Her mind was her own, private, sacred place.

Madame B finally turned away to face the front and Natasha slowly let out a silent sigh of relief. Madame B's stare had given her the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of being x-rayed.

The rest of the journey took place in terse silence, the four of them containing themselves to their own thoughts.

As the van slowed to a halt outside the small train station, Natasha pulled herself out of her musings and unbuckled her seat belt, sliding out of the van after Tatiana.

Madame B walked around the van to place a hand on each of their shoulders as she gave them a steady smile.

"You're my two best girls," she said quietly. "I know you won't fail."

The two girls murmured their thanks before slipping away, climbing the concrete steps up to the train station.

Natasha let out a sigh of relief as they rounded the corner at the top of the steps, stepping out onto the platform and out of Madame B's view.

If Tatiana noticed her exhale, she did not comment on it.

They did not have long to wait until the train arrived, the dark green diesel engine spewing out its fumes over the small platform. The words 'St. Petersburg' were illuminated dimly on the side of the train.

The train was a small one, with just three carriages. As the doors opened, Natasha and Tatiana quickly slipped into the middle carriage, choosing two seats in the very back corner of the carriage, as far away from the other passengers as possible.

They kept an eye out for possible tails – they had been trained to be observant at all times – but there did not appear to be anyone nearby acting suspiciously.

The girls shrugged off their coats and tucked their bags between their legs on the floor as the train began to move away from the station.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the countryside whiz past in a blur of dark green, brown and grey.

Natasha found herself clearing her mind, mentally preparing for the mission ahead, thinking of all the possible variables and outcomes and imagining ways to deal with every possible scenario.

She was lost so deeply in her thoughts that Tatiana had to poke her in the ribs to get her attention.

Natasha's eyes flew open, her nostrils flaring in annoyance.

"What?" she said, perhaps more sharply than she intended. She sighed and tried to soften her features; Tatiana had not meant to startle or disturb her.

Tatiana seemed unperturbed by Natasha's harsh response, her pale blue eyes not flickering with any emotion.

"I said, do you miss Elena?" said Tatiana.

Natasha stared at Tatiana, shocked not only that had Tatiana asked such a deeply intimate question, but that she had apparently asked it before but Natasha had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she had not heard her the first time.

She became aware of the fact her mouth was open and quickly snapped it shut, embarrassed to have been caught to obviously unawares.

"Do I miss Elena?" said Natasha, stalling for time.

"Yes," said Tatiana.

Natasha looked hard at the other girl, searching her face for any sign of ill-intent or malice but finding none there.

Tatiana's fine eyebrows contracted as she cocked her head to the side, looking at Natasha with a look of mild concern on her face.

The tight coil of suspicion relaxed slightly inside Natasha, letting her let out a small sigh.

"Yes," she replied quietly. She did miss Elena – terribly so.

Tatiana nodded thoughtfully.

"I wish Elena had won the fight," said Tatiana, after a long pause.

Natasha looked at her curiously. Tatiana did not have friends, even in primary school when it had been permitted. She had not expressed any interest in playing with Natasha or Elena or Katerina or any of the other girls when they had been growing up. Natasha wondered what was going on in that head of hers, what thoughts and judgements she had formed of her classmates.

"I don't like Katerina," continued Tatiana. "She's arrogant and too eager to please Madame B. She's needy for attention and praise. She's weak. But Elena was strong. And nice. I respected Elena."

Natasha stared at Tatiana. It was the longest speech she had ever heard her say outside of a mission. Tatiana did not engage in idle chatter. Which must mean that she thought Elena was important enough for her to talk about, for her to break her usual near-muteness.

Natasha felt her throat swell with emotion. She nodded, pressing her lips together into a tight line to prevent herself from crying. She nodded her agreement.

"Thank you," she said roughly.

Tatiana turned away to look out of the window. It was a non-aggressive gesture. She was not shunning Natasha or being rude, it was simply the end of the conversation. She had said what she wanted to say.

Natasha found herself strangely thankful for the silence.

 

* * *

 

They arrived in St. Petersburg one hour later.

After examining a map outside the station, they trudged their way through the streets in silence, making their way slowly but steadily towards the north-west outskirts of the city, where Drakov's compound was located.

Madame B had told them that Sergei Drakov worked from 9am to 6pm at an accountancy firm, having resigned from the KGB a few months previously. During the week, Valentina Drakova was left alone in the care of her nanny, who looked after her and gave her a home-based education. Natasha and Tatiana were to keep an eye on the house, waiting for a moment when the little girl ventured outside.

They finally arrived at the address; a large, detached, two storey house surrounded by a high, wire fence and an iron gate.

The houses were spaced well apart on this particular road. It was an area of St. Petersburg home to the rich and the reclusive. A large wood stretched out behind the houses.

Natasha and Tatiana slipped along a footpath that led to the wood and climbed one of the trees that overlooked that Drakov house and garden. From their vantage point, they would be able to see Valentina the instant she stepped outside of the house, whilst they would be completely hidden by the thick foliage.

It was 10c, warm for April in St. Petersburg, but still cool enough to chill the girls as they sat silently up the tree, waiting for Valentina to come outside. Natasha shifted uncomfortably on her branch, hugging her coat around her tightly to ward off the cold as she became more and more aware of pressure building up in her bladder.

After a while, Tatiana noticed her constant shifting and frowned.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Natasha blushed, staring at the house and refusing to make eye contact with Tatiana.

"I need to pee," she said.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tatiana shrug.

"Just pull your underwear down and your dress up and pee in the tree," she said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

After a few more minutes of fidgeting, Natasha decided she could not hold on any longer and did as Tatiana had suggested, pulling her underwear to the side as she squatted and peed. Natasha felt strangely self-conscious as she did so. The girls had seen one another naked, but there was something different, something more intimate, about urinating that made it feel much more taboo.

Natasha felt her cheeks colour as she finished peeing and readjusted her clothes. Turning towards Tatiana, she was shocked to see the other girl staring at her indifferently. Natasha suddenly felt angry at the thought that Tatiana had been watching her all along, opening her mouth to object when she finally heard the back door of the Drakov property open.

The girls' eyes snapped to Valentina, who was skipping out of the back door and into the garden to play.

The girls waited with bated breath to see if her nanny would join her outside. After several long minutes, the nanny had still not come outside and Natasha and Tatiana exchanged nods.

It was time to execute the first part of the plan.

Valentina Drakova was 8 years old, with large brown eyes and long blonde hair that was plaited into two pigtails. She was slim, with black leggings clinging to her skinny legs and a pink dress that hung down to her knees. She was scurrying around, running and jumping and talking to herself, clearly absorbed in some imaginary world.

Natasha and Tatiana climbed silently down from the tree, pulling their dolls from their bags and walking right up to the wire fence, sitting down on the grass where they would be clearly visible to the little girl. They played with the dolls, pretending to have a tea party with invisible drinks and cakes.

Valentina wandered closer to where they were sitting, obviously curious about the girls and their dolls.

Natasha and Tatiana ignored her, continuing to play with the dolls, sometimes sitting them down, other times pulling them onto their laps to brush their hair with their fingers or lift them high into the air.

By now, Valentina was pressed right up to the wire fence, not bothering to hide the fact that she was ogling at the dolls.

"Can I see the dolls?" she said finally, her voice full of trust and curiosity.

Natasha and Tatiana gave a start, as if they had only just noticed the little girl watching them on the other side of the fence.

Valentina's eyes were looking hungrily at the beautiful dolls, her little hands twitching with longing.

Natasha hummed, stroking her chin as if she were giving serious consideration to Valentina's request.

"I suppose so," she said slowly. "You'll have to come over here, though, if you want to see them properly."

At this, Valentina hesitated, clearly torn between her yearning to play with the dolls and the knowledge that she was not supposed to talk to strangers, let alone leave the compound to play with them. And yet... the two girls looked so nice in their pretty dresses, and they could not be more than five years older than herself; Valentina was sure that she would be safe with them.

"I'm not meant to leave the compound," she said doubtfully, as if she were trying to convince herself more than the girls.

Tatiana sighed and shook her head. "That's a shame," she said, her pale blue eyes looking genuinely sad. She was an expert actor. "The dolls are so precious and old. Come on, Natasha, let's go. The little girl doesn't want to play with the dolls."

Natasha and Tatiana stood up, picking up the dolls and turning to leave.

Valentina practically hopped on the spot as she flailed her arms in distress.

"Wait!" she cried.

The two girls paused, looking at Valentina expectantly.

Valentina ran back towards the house, wrenching open the back door and disappearing from view.

"Do you think she'll come out?" murmured Natasha.

If she did not, they would easily be able to break in; the wire fence was easily by-passable and the compound appeared to have no additional security at all. It would be a lot easier though, to do what they planned to do in the remoteness and seclusion of the woods.

Tatiana shrugged, not taking her eyes off the back door where Valentina had disappeared.

A few minutes later, the little girl reappeared, clutching a key to her chest.

The two girls smiled as they watched Valentina run to the gate and unlock it, before slipping through the gap.

She ran around the edge of the wire fence until she reached the two girls, a big smile on her round, slightly flushed face. She reached out for the doll in Natasha's hands. Natasha gave it to her with a warm, gentle smile.

"Be careful with her," she urged. "She's very valuable."

Valentina held the doll as carefully as a newborn, her eyes wide with sheer delight as she took in the beautifully painted face and the fine clothes. Natasha had to hand it to Madame B; it was a very convincing fake. Valentina stroked the doll's curly locks gently, her touch soft and delicate, giggling quietly as she did so.

"Do you want to see a den we made in the woods?" asked Tatiana. "We were going to take the dolls there to have a proper tea party."

Valentina shrank back a little in fear. She did not like the wood. It was dark and frightening and her father had always told her not to go in there, in case she got lost.

"I'm scared," she squeaked out, clutching at the doll a little harder.

Natasha and Tatiana smiled, bending down so that they were on her level.

"There's no reason to be scared," said Tatiana gently.

"We'll look after you," added Natasha, her tone calm and soothing. "We won't let anything bad happen to you."

Valentina wavered, her long eyelashes fluttering over her large brown eyes as she flicked her gaze from one girl to the other, clearly battling with herself over the best course of action. She knew that talking to strangers and wandering into the wood was forbidden, and yet the girls' offer seemed so  _tempting_. The dolls were beautiful and a tea party sounded like so much fun.

"OK," she said eventually, standing up tall as she made up her mind.

Natasha smiled as she took Valentina by the hand, leading the trio into the woods.

They walked for around 10 minutes, going deeper and deeper into the trees, away from the houses. As they ventured into the heart of the wood, the canopy of the leaves overheard grew thicker and thicker, casting the girls in dark shadows, making the thick tree trunks look strangely threatening.

Valentina shivered and huddled closer to Natasha, tightening her grip in the older girl's hand.

Eventually, when Natasha and Tatiana were satisfied that they were in remote enough an area for their planned activities, they stopped, giving the little girl an encouraging smile as they handed her the dolls.

"Here we are," announced Tatiana. "Put the dolls down on that patch of grass over there. We'll get out the rest of the tea party things."

Natasha gave Valentina's hand a little squeeze. "See, you had nothing to be scared of," she said.

Valentina gave her a smile before skipping to the patch of grass that Tatiana had pointed to and sitting down with the dolls, her back to the other girls.

Natasha and Tatiana slowly opened their bags, careful not to make any sudden noises or movements that would make Valentina look their way.

Tatiana pulled the knife from her bag and removed the blade sheath. Natasha mirrored her movements, her heart hammering in her chest. No matter how many missions they went on, it would never dull the thrill of tension and excitement that thrummed through her veins right before they executed a plan.

Natasha felt the weight of the knife in her hand, familiarising herself with the feel and balance of it.

She reminded herself that they were to make a messy job of it. A simple, efficient kill with only one wound, like they normally did, would not do. They had to be theatrical, dramatic. Natasha supposed it was a bit like art.

Gripping the handle of the knife tightly, she caught and held Tatiana's gaze, waiting until she felt completely mentally prepared before nodding. After a few seconds, Tatiana nodded back. At the pre-arranged signal, the two girls moved together as one towards Valentina, their quiet footfalls making almost no sound on the soft grass of the woodland floor.

When they were just a few metres away from the little girl, Valentina turned around.

She froze, her eyes wide with horror as she absorbed the sight of Natasha and Tatiana, in their perfect, pretty dresses, approaching her with knives clutched in their hands.

Valentina shot to her feet, the dolls falling to the ground as she threw herself away from the approaching girls and started staggering blindly through the trees in a desperate attempt to escape.

Tatiana put on a burst of speed and tackled Valentina to the ground, wrapping her arms around the little girl's waist. Valentina let out a cry as they fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of her from the momentum of the tackle and Tatiana's weight crushing her.

Tatiana quickly got off Valentina, roughly manoeuvring her so that Tatiana held her arms tightly behind her back. She did not bother to muffle Valentina's screams; they had taken her far enough into the woods that no one would be able to hear her.

Natasha approached Tatiana and Valentina slowly, her eyes never leaving the younger girl's. The rest of the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the three of them and the few metres of dense woodland immediately surrounding them.

Sounds seemed sharper, colours seemed brighter. She could feel every bump and ridge of the handle of the knife in her hand. The frightened gasps of Valentina's laboured breathing filled her ears.

"Please don't hurt me!" pleaded Valentina, her large brown eyes over-spilling with tears.

Natasha ignored her, watching instead with fascination the way the tears made tracks down her plump little cheeks.

Stepping forward so that she was directly in Valentina's personal space, she gently traced the tracks of her tears with the sharp point of the knife. Valentina gasped and choked as Natasha carefully split her skin, mixing blood with the salt of her tears.

Natasha faintly heard Tatiana's hum of approval, as if she were a great distance rather than just a few feet away. She was too completely focused on Valentina to take any further notice of her classmate.

"Please, please," Valentina whimpered.

Natasha could see her legs trembling, but luckily Tatiana was holding her too tightly for her to fall to the ground.

Soon, the little girl's entire body was shaking, her blonde pigtails almost seeming to vibrate. Natasha took the pigtails firmly and used the knife to cut them off, leaving Valentina with a mess of short, uneven hair. The little girl gave a little moan as she watched her long blonde plaits fall to the woodland floor with soft thumps.

The moan transformed into a sudden, high-pitched scream as Natasha plunged the knife into her arm. For a moment, Valentina looked as though she was going to pass out, swaying violently as sweat erupted from her body and her face paled.

Usually, Natasha kept her emotions under control on missions. It was essential to be controlled in order to complete the missions as quickly, efficiently and discreetly as possible. This mission, however, was not about speed, efficiency or discretion. This mission was about being big, bad and bold. This mission was about making a statement.

So she let loose.

She allowed herself to feel every single emotion that she had been keeping tightly under wraps for the last year and a half since Elena's death; all the anger, the hatred, the fear, the grief – she allowed herself to feel every single shred of it.

She felt overloaded with it; the emotion, the pain filled every corner of her mind as she brought her knife down again and again on Valentina, the little girl's pink dress quickly soaking through with bright red blood.

Valentina was screaming, high, terrified sounds and gargling gasps escaping from her throat.

Natasha ignored her, driving her knife firmly into Valentina's abdomen, her sides, her thighs. Hot blood gushed over her hand every time she pierced the little girl's soft skin and pushed the knife in.

The grip of the knife was slippery. Natasha had to grip it a little harder.

"Daddy!" cried Valentina, her screams becoming weaker as she hung limp in Tatiana's tight hold.

Natasha listened to her crying for her father but felt no pity. Girls at the Red Room Academy had no need for parents. Valentina was weak. Elena never begged for mercy.

A fresh wave of rage flooded through Natasha. She was furious, taken over by an insatiable, irrational anger that the brown eyes fixed on her were Valentina's and not Elena's, that she was in a clearing in a St. Petersburg wood and not up that beech tree at the top of the hill near the Red Room Academy.

Natasha's hand became a blur as she stabbed Valentina in a frenzy. She no longer cared about where she stabbed. There was no artistry in her strokes. She was wild. She could not stop.

As suddenly as the hot rage had started, it stopped, leaving her exhausted.

She threw her knife to the ground, moving around Valentina to swap places with Tatiana.

She gripped Valentina firmly by the shoulders, although by this point it was more to keep her upright than to stop her from running away. Honestly, that she was even still alive surprised Natasha.

Tatiana got to work, using her knife in a much calmer, controlled way than Natasha. She did not stab, choosing instead to use the tip to carve patterns in the little girl's skin, making her whimper weakly.

Natasha zoned out, losing herself in the little sounds coming from Valentina and the sound of her own heartbeat thrumming in her ears. She was walking a mental tightrope between anger, pain and exhaustion. Her heart ached for Elena. She just wanted to finish the job, go home, curl up under her duvet and shut out the rest of the world.

"Natasha," said Tatiana quietly.

Natasha immediately snapped her attention to her classmate, cocking her head to the side to show she was listening.

"Shall we cut out her tongue?" asked Tatiana. "It could reflect Mr. Drakov talking to MI6. It would be poetry in action."

Natasha thought about it, her mind going back to the poetry book and Alexander Pushkin's poem 'Confession'.

Poetry was beautiful.

"Yes," she replied.

Upon hearing this, Valentina screamed, somehow finding the strength to start struggling anew.

"I want to do it," said Natasha, ignoring the writhing girl in her arms, feeling oddly compelled to be the one to do it. She had a strong fondness for poetry.

Tatiana nodded and the girls switched positions once again.

Tatiana grabbed Valentina by the back of the neck and forced her down onto the woodland floor.

Natasha picked up her knife from where she had dropped it and straddled Valentina's chest, the blood from the girl's wounds quickly wetting her thighs as she sat on her. She ran a hand gently along the little girl's jaw, coaxing her to open her mouth. Valentina kept her mouth clamped tightly shut, shaking her head violently from side to side.

Sighing, Natasha pinched Valentina's nose, waiting patiently for her to run out of oxygen. Ten long seconds later, Valentina could resist the urge to breathe no longer and opened her mouth to suck in a huge lungful of air.

Quick as a flash, Natasha grabbed hold of Valentina's tongue, tugging on the wet, strong muscle harshly. Valentina choked, her eyes bulging with pain and horror. Tatiana held Valentina's head still, allowing Natasha to concentrate on slicing through the surprisingly strong muscle. It felt strange, to cut through the tongue, the double sensation of moistness from Valentina's saliva and her blood making Natasha cringe momentarily.

Valentina vomited as Natasha finally finished cutting through her tongue, the half-digested remains of her last meal mixing with the blood pouring down her face.

Natasha leaned back, swallowing back a shudder as she observed the finally still girl before her.

After about a minute of motionless silence, she reached forward and groped at the little girl's throat to feel for a pulse. Her fingers found no movement in the girl's carotid arteries.

Valentina Drakova was dead.

Natasha looked up to meet Tatiana's eyes and nodded. The other girl understood instantly and let go of her grip on Valentina's shoulders.

Sheathing their knives and stowing them and the dolls back into their bags, the two girls grabbed hold of Valentina – Natasha holding her wrists, Tatiana holding her ankles – and lifted her up from the woodland floor, making their way slowly back towards the Drakov compound, winding their way through the thick shrubs and trees.

They walked in silence, each of them lost in their own heads, going through their mental post-mission rituals. Natasha replayed the scene in her mind, allowing the calmness of knowing she had successfully completed the mission wash over her. Every successfully completed mission was a cause for celebration. Every successfully completed mission was one step closer to graduation.

They finally emerged at the edge of the woods. Dropping Valentina on the ground, they reached into their bags and brought out their towels and their fresh sets of clothes. They stripped off their blood-soaked dresses in silence, wiping themselves clean with the towels and quickly putting on the new clothes that Madame B had prepared for this purpose.

Once they were dressed in their new, dark clothing and wiped clean of blood, they stuffed their bloody clothing into their bags and examined one another carefully, checking that they each looked outwardly normal. They did.

Satisfied with their normal appearances, they dragged Valentina's body the final few feet and dumped it next to the wire fence that surrounded the Drakov property.

She was clearly visible from the house's back door.

They would find her soon enough.

 

* * *

 

The journey back from St. Petersburg was uneventful.

Natasha was exhausted, silently grateful for the fact that Tatiana did not try to engage her in conversation.

Now that the adrenaline and bloodlust had left her, she could feel the painful ache of her muscles clamouring for her attention. The events of the day seemed surreal, like a dream. She savoured the pain in her body; it grounded her, reminded her that what had happened was real. Distantly, she noted that the ache in her chest for Elena had lessened slightly, as if the actions she had doled out on Valentina had had a cathartic effect.

They were met at the station by Vladimir.

He drove them back to the Red Room Academy in silence. Natasha rested her forehead against the cool glass of the van window, allowing the vibration of the vehicle to rattle her body. It was soothing. Glancing to her left, she saw that Tatiana had assumed a similar position, watching the world go by out of her window, her pale blue eyes wide and staring.

Gradually, Natasha started recognising more and more of the scenery outside. As they drove along the narrow lane past James' farm, Natasha sat up a little straighter, trying to gather her thoughts for the mission debrief that Madame B would no doubt be expecting.

They pulled up the Red Room Academy driveway barely a minute later, the white gravel crunching under the tires. Natasha saw that Madame B and her classmates were outside, doing endurance training by the look of things.

The van slowed to a halt and Natasha and Tatiana climbed out of the vehicle.

Almost immediately, Katerina was up in their faces. Natasha felt her stomach twist with disgust as the blonde stamped her feet angrily, her dark blue eyes filled with bitterness.

"Why couldn't _I_  go on the mission?" she whined, glaring at Natasha, her frustration and jealousy written all over her face.

Natasha remembered what Tatiana had said about Katerina being needy and too desperate to please Madame B and realised that it was completely true. Natasha filed the information away in her brain.

Madame B swept forward, pushing Katerina unceremoniously out of the way as she focused her attention on Natasha and Tatiana.

"Well?" she asked. "Did you do it?"

The two girls nodded, causing Madame B to step forward and embrace them tightly. Natasha stood awkwardly, not knowing whether she was supposed to hug back or not, as Madame B squashed the girls against her bosom.

"I cut out her tongue," Natasha blurted out, to break the growing silence. "It represents Sergei Drakov's loose tongue in spilling KGB secrets to MI6. It... it was like poetry."

Madame B pulled back and looked at Natasha pensively, a small smile pulling at her lips.

"Poetry is beautiful, is it not?" Madame B said softly, the smile on her face widening.

_Love... the frivolous disorder fills every jitter of my soul._

Natasha nodded and, with a start, realised that she was smiling too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teaser: The next chapter will be called "Mentoring". It will be less action-focused and more character-focused than this chapter. We'll get to see the inner workings of Natasha's mind and we'll also get to understand a little more about James' past.


	10. Mentoring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/154859315721/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)

1998 – Aged 14

 

* * *

 

One morning, Madame B announced that the girls would start having one-to-one mentoring sessions with her every week.

The news came as a surprise to the students, who had always been told that chatting was a trait most commonly found amongst weak-willed and unintelligent individuals.

By now, the girls were 14 years old and the class had shrunk to just 12 students. The Red Room Academy was like that; the number of girls in each year decreased as they got older. It was part of the programme. Any and all weaknesses had to be removed. Some of the girls did not have what it took to be KGB agents. Those girls were weeded out and killed.

Madame B slowly made her way around the classroom, dropping a small, folded-up piece of paper on each girl's desk.

Natasha opened her slip of paper curiously. On it were three words, written in blue ink in Madame B's perfect handwriting.

_Every Thursday, 5pm._

Madame B finished handing out the slips of paper, returning to her position at the front of the class. She gazed steadily around at her students, seeing the curiosity in their eyes.

"On your piece of paper is written a day and a time," she said. "From this moment on, until you graduate, you are to meet with me every week on this day and time. These mentoring sessions will be completely private and confidential. What you say in these sessions will not be used against you. Quite the opposite, in fact. These sessions are designed to  _help_ you."

Natasha frowned at the paper in her hands. What on earth were they supposed to do or talk about with Madame B during their mentoring sessions? Their relationship was purely that of teacher and student. They were not friends. They did not  _chat_.

She put her hand up cautiously.

Madame B nodded at Natasha, giving her permission to speak.

"Excuse me, Madame B," she said slowly. "What exactly is the point of these mentoring sessions?"

The other girls all nodded and hummed in agreement, voicing their support for Natasha's question.

Madame B nodded thoughtfully too, acknowledging that the question was a valid one.

"These mentoring sessions have a dual purpose: they will give me an insight into your minds and they will give you an opportunity to talk about issues that are bothering you," she said.

Natasha had to hold back a shudder.

Her mind was her own private place. James had told her that the night Elena had been killed. The idea of granting Madame B access to her innermost thoughts sent an unexpected stab of horror through her chest.

"It's quite common for teenagers to have strange thoughts," continued Madame B. "You may be starting to think about freedom and individuality. If you have thinking about these concepts, or indeed having any thoughts that are not in line with what we have taught you here at the Red Room Academy, you must not worry. Puberty is a time when your hormones are raging, making you think all kinds of strange things. During these sessions, you will able to talk about those thoughts with me freely. You will not be punished."

Madame B's tone was calm and placating, her hands outstretched, palms up, as if she were trying to tame an angry animal.

Natasha shifted slightly in her chair. Madame B's words seemed strangely jarring. She had always told them about the dangers of freedom and individuality. The idea that they could approach her with such deviant thoughts and avoid punishment seemed almost ludicrous.

Madame B seemed to be following Natasha's train of thought, as she continued speaking.

"That is not to say, however, that these thoughts will not be challenged," she said. "Of course, freedom and individuality are our enemies. But if you come to me with these thoughts, we will have a proper discussion about it, like adults. I will help you to understand the perils of freedom and the beauty of control, using talking and logic. You will not be punished, either physically or academically. Indeed, I will see it as a sign of strength if you come forward to me with such thoughts, despite the fact you know how deviant they are. Self-improvement takes courage, and I always commend courage."

Madame B was silent for a while, letting her words sink in. Natasha sat still in her chair, allowing the woman's message to stew in her brain. Actually, she  _had_ been thinking about freedom, recently. The concept tugged at her curious mind, demanding attention and further probing.

She did not want to share this part of herself with Madame B. She did not want Madame B to erase that part of her mind through 'talking and logic'.

"These sessions will start next week," said Madame B. "I expect you to turn up on time at my office, at the day and time specified on your piece of paper."

Natasha stared at the paper as the bell rang to indicate the end of the lesson, before stuffing it into her pocket. She tried to shake off the uneasy feeling that was creeping over her body as she exited the room to head to the dining hall for lunch.

The three words seemed heavy in her pocket.

_Every Thursday, 5pm._

 

* * *

 

She visited James one Sunday afternoon a few weeks later.

By now, Natasha and her classmates were allowed out of the Red Room Academy grounds whenever they wanted at the weekends and evenings, so long as they were back before nightfall. It was one of the perks of being an older student.

Natasha liked to see James at least a couple of times a month, although she did so in secret, making sure that no one was watching her when she slipped over to his farmhouse.

James was getting old. His curly grey hair had turned white and his walk was a little stiffer than it used to be. He still greeted Natasha with the same warm enthusiasm, though, and if she would do some of the chores whilst she was there to ease his workload, and if he would smile gratefully, neither of them mentioned the reason for it – his gradually increasing frailty – and they slid into the routine quite naturally.

On this particular Sunday afternoon, James was sitting at the kitchen table as Natasha washed his dishes, when a question that had been stewing in Natasha's mind ever since Madame B had announced the mentoring sessions slipped from her lips.

"Was anyone ever born in the concentration camp you were in in World War II?"

She placed the final plate in the drying rack as she finished the washing up, turning around to see James' eyes flash momentarily with pain as he transported himself back into the past.

His mind was still as sharp as it ever was.

"Sometimes," he said. "It was rare, but it happened."

Natasha moved across the kitchen towards the living room, allowing James to take hold of her arm and lean on her as they walked over to the cosy sofa.

James sat slowly, letting out a small groan as he finally settled down. He rubbed his knees absent-mindedly, but did not mention the discomfort they were obviously causing him.

Natasha wished she could take his pain away.

"Did the children who were born there know that they were prisoners?" she asked. "Or did they just think it was normal and accept it because it was all they'd ever known?"

James' forehead crinkled as he thought about it. He was always like this, giving full attention to whatever Natasha said and not responding until he had thought up what he considered a good enough answer for her. He could sense her sharp intellect and wanted to nurture it by giving it anything it hungered for. Remembering his time at the concentration camp was painful, but he knew it was important to talk about it, and if Natasha wanted to know the details, he would provide them.

"They knew on an intellectual level that they were prisoners," he said eventually. "But I don't think they truly  _understood_ what the words 'prisoner' and 'freedom' meant until they were set free. My best friend, Alexei, he was a little younger than me. He wasn't born in the concentration camp but he was young enough that it was all he could remember. I don't think he ever really understood what freedom was. It breaks my heart."

At the end of his sentence, James' voice broke and Natasha's heart ached for him as she saw fat tears making tracks down his cheeks. She wiped them away gently, pulling him into a hug and rubbing his back until his sobs quietened down.

"I remember you mentioning Alexei before, years ago," she said. "I think I remember you saying he died in the concentration camp?"

James nodded tightly, pulling out a handkerchief and blowing his nose loudly.

She watched James' shaking hands and realised just how strong his bond with Alexei must have been, for James to still feel such grief and yearning so many years after his death.

"That's right," he said, his voice still brittle and wavering. "He died five years in. Just one more year and he would have been saved and set free. But he never got to experience liberation."

He sighed heavily, before shaking his head and looking seriously at Natasha.

"Why are you asking?" He did not sound annoyed, but the sad note that leaked into his tone of voice did not escape Natasha's notice. She suddenly felt bad for bringing back such painful memories just for the sake of her curiosity.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you about the concentration camp," she said, the feeling of regret almost a bitter taste in her mouth.

James pulled her into a hug, shaking his head fiercely. "Never apologise for asking questions," he said. "It's a period of history we must not forget. And asking questions is the only route to finding answers. If you have a question, you should always ask it."

Natasha squeezed his hand gratefully, immensely relieved that he was not upset or angry with her.

"So let me ask you my question again, my elusive friend," he said, smiling. "Why were you asking?"

Natasha hesitated. She did not want to compare his time in the Nazi concentration camp with her upbringing in the Red Room Academy. The comparison seemed almost offensive. She had never gone hungry or been faced with the prospect of gas chambers. The concentration camp sounded a million times worse than the Red Room Academy. And yet, she was aware that there were certain parallels...

"It's nothing really," she said, trying and failing to sound casual. For all the lies she had told during the course of her missions, she could never bring herself to lie properly to James. "It's just... I've only ever known life in the Red Room Academy. Sometimes, it can be restrictive. I sometimes wonder if the outside world is different – if it's freer."

This was probably exactly the kind of information that Madame B wanted her to divulge in their mentoring sessions. But these thoughts, these musings, seemed for too intimate, too deeply secret to share with her teacher. She wondered what it meant that she was spilling these innermost thoughts to James, and concluded that it must be because James was more of a parent-figure to her than Madame B had ever been.

James observed her quietly for a while, his eyes going misty as he clearly went down some rabbit-hole in his mind.

"I can't say I know exactly what kind of restrictions the Red Room Academy imposes on you," he said eventually. "Years ago, you mentioned that they handcuffed you to your beds and I’m guessing that there's more. But in just four years’ time, you'll turn 18 and get to leave that place. So I guess you'll find out what freedom is then, if you don't know it already."

Natasha looked up and saw that James was smiling. The wrinkles around his eyes were deep and numerous, making him look radiant with joy. It was the face of a man who had spent a lifetime smiling and laughing, in spite of all that life had thrown at him.

Natasha had a deep respect for James.

"I guess," she said, smiling as she snuggled up to James' side and pillowed her head against his shoulder.

Just four more years.

 

* * *

 

A few months later, Natasha had a particularly intense mentoring session with Madame B.

Natasha was sat in front of Madame B's desk, her hands clasped in her lap. Her teacher had fixed her with a long, penetration stare, which Natasha was trying her best to return unflinchingly.

"How have you been, Natasha?" she asked.

She asked the same question at the beginning of every mentoring session. Sometimes, the sessions lasted just 5 minutes. Other times, they would last a whole hour. It all depended on Madame B and how hard she wanted to probe Natasha's mind.

Natasha had become good at deflecting her suspicion, answering her questions in exactly the way she knew she should. She did not want to give Madame B access to her thoughts.

"I'm good, thank you," Natasha replied smoothly. "I've been working really hard on my English this week. I want to expand my informal vocabulary so that I can pass as a native English speaker in casual conversation."

Madame B made a small note in her file, jotting down Natasha's response.

"Have you been having any strange thoughts lately?" continued Madame B.

Natasha thought about her musings about what life was like outside the Red Room Academy, about all the times she had wondered what freedom felt like, about the conversations she had had with James about his time in the concentration camp.

"No," she lied.

Madame B stared at her, her sharp blue eyes boring into Natasha's green ones. Natasha tried hard not to blink, staring back at Madame B as her heartbeat pounded loudly in her ears. Madame B frowned slightly, as if she had found something in the depths of Natasha's eyes that she did not like.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" she said, changing tack.

Natasha flinched slightly as she remembered the time when she and Elena had asked once another that question, up in the beech tree all those summers previously. Natasha had said she had wanted to be a ballerina. Elena had wanted to be a writer.

"I will be a defender of the KGB's ideals and principles," she said automatically, the words burnt into her brain from years of conditioning. "I accept that. It's my destiny. I have no other ambitions."

Madame B nodded and smiled, apparently satisfied with Natasha's answer as she scribbled down some more notes.

"Very good," she said. "Just one more question. Are you still seeing that pig farmer from down the road? What's his name? James?"

Natasha felt her mouth go dry as her heart leapt to her throat. She swallowed past the big ball of nerves as she tried to control her breathing, focusing intently on not displaying any outwards sign of shock or fear at Madame B's question.

She felt, right down to her bones, that her friendship with James must remain hidden. It felt like the only way she could protect both of them from the anger of the Red Room Academy. She knew how opposed Madame B was to friendship.

"No," she lied again. "I haven't seen him for about a year and a half."

Madame B was silent for a long while, as if she were waiting for Natasha to elaborate on her answer or change her mind.

When Natasha remained silent, she sighed.

"Thank you, Natasha," said Madame B. "You may leave."

Natasha stood and walked out of Madame B's office, keeping her movements perfectly controlled and relaxed.

She could feel her teacher's eyes on her back as she left the room, only letting out the breath she was holding when the door swung shut behind her.

Wiping her sweaty palms on her dress, she made her way back to the dormitory.

She hoped that Madame B believed she was not seeing James anymore.

 

* * *

 

Natasha visited James two days later.

"Did you ever try to escape the concentration camp?" she asked, as the two of them nestled down on James' squishy red sofa.

"Yes. A few times," said James, putting an arm around Natasha's shoulders as she snuggled up against him. "But our attempts weren't successful."

He fell silent for a while and Natasha could instinctively tell he was thinking about Alexei, the little boy who had been his best friend in the concentration camp.

"Tell me what happened," she whispered, putting one of her hands on James' when she saw that they were shaking.

James squeezed her fingers gratefully, giving her a small smile of thanks.

"The first time we tried to escape, we decided to overpower the guards," he said. He gazed at the flames flickering in the fireplace, clearly lost in the memories of those horrifying years of captivity. "There were 20 of us, in our little hut, and one evening we just decided to wait for the guard to come with our food and rush at him. There were 20 of us and one of him, so it worked. We easily overpowered him and ran out of the hut, but of course the other guards were there patrolling the camp and the perimeter. We couldn't get past them. They realised that we were trying to escape straight away and they rounded us up and took us back to our hut. They punished us severely. We were beaten and starved and worked even harder than before. Most of us died, but me and Alexei somehow survived. They moved us to a new hut."

James' hand clenched in Natasha's and the expression on his face was one of fear.

Natasha rubbed his hand gently, leaning against him in an attempt to bring him back to the present.

"You're safe," she said softly, dropping a chaste kiss on his cheek.

James whimpered, a tear rolling down his cheek as he gripped her hand tighter.

"Do you want to stop talking about it?" she offered.

James shook his head, a determined look blossoming in his brown eyes.

"The second time we tried to escape, we tried to dig our way out," he continued after a long pause. "We dug a secret tunnel. Alexei was too young to really understand the concept of escape, so for his sake we just pretended it was a secret game. The game was that every night, two of us would go down into the tunnel and dig a little further."

Natasha listened in silence, imagining the darkness of the tunnel, the quiet little scrapes of their tools as they tried to dig their way to freedom, one inch of soil at a time. It must have been painstaking. Yet they had persevered.

"It almost worked," said James. "We got so close. But the soil was too crumbly and one night the whole thing just collapsed. The two people who were down there digging died. The guards didn't even notice they were missing."

Natasha's hands clenched involuntarily. The thought of being buried alive horrified her. She imagined the terrible weight of the earth pressing down on those poor people, imagined how they must have suffocated, gasping for air only to have their mouths filled with soil. She could barely stand to think about it.

"The closest we ever came to escaping was when Alexei befriended one of the guards. It was 1944 and he was nine years old. He was a sweet boy. One of the guards had a soft spot for him. They became friends. I think Alexei reminded the guard of his own son. He would tell him bedtime stories and bring him extra food. Alexei loved that guard – he would call him Papa and hug him whenever he saw him. He treated him like a father or a friend rather than a captor – I think the guard appreciated that."

Natasha imagined the little boy's innocence, his love and trust for the guard bringing the two of them happiness, a little spark of light in the darkness of the camp. Little Alexei, who could only ever remember living in the camp, who had no memory or real understanding of freedom, who James still clearly loved, so many decades on.

"The guard arranged to smuggle Alexei out of the camp to set him free. Everything was prepared, the perimeter guard was bribed. To this day, I don't know who betrayed them, but as they approached the final fences, they were swarmed by officers. They shot them both. The kind guard and Alexei died instantly. I think that was the day that I vowed to myself to treasure every second of freedom I had if I ever left that camp alive, to value kindness, to love freedom – that big blue sky."

Natasha sat in solemn silence, letting James' words wash over her. James had lost Alexei, just as she had lost Elena. She wondered how James managed to face each day with a smile when he obviously still felt pain over his friend's death. She supposed it was because he was finally free. He had achieved what Alexei had only been able to dream of: freedom.

"So you had the best chance of escaping when you befriended your captors and were well-behaved?" she said eventually.

"Yes," said James, eyeing her shrewdly. "Why? Do you want to escape from the orphanage?"

Natasha nodded, finally admitting out loud something that had been playing on her mind for months. "Yes."

James rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring off into the fireplace again.

"In four years’ time, you'll turn 18 and then you'll be free," he said. "You just have to stick it out for four more years. And if you're well-behaved, then those last years will be comfortable ones."

Natasha sat silently.

What James was saying was not entirely true, although of course he did not know that.

When Natasha turned 18, she would not be free. She would graduate from the Red Room Academy, yes, but she would be walking out of there right into the open arms of the KGB. Once she turned 18, she would be the KGB's property. She hoped, however, that if she was a good student and a good agent, then they would allow her some time off and give her a little freedom.

She sat up a little straighter as she made up her mind, the resolution making her skin tingle. She would be the best student the Red Room Academy had ever had. She would be the best agent the KGB had ever seen. It was the only route to freedom.

"Will you still visit me when you leave the orphanage?" James asked, his tone so shy and quiet that Natasha actually startled with surprise.

He was looking at her with a strange expression, both earnest and sad at the same time. It suddenly dawned on Natasha that with all her talk of wanting to escape from the Red Room Academy, perhaps James thought she would simply take off and he would never see her again.

Natasha flung her arms around his neck as she hugged him close, squeezing him tight so that he would understand just how much she loved him. James was her best friend. He was the closest she had to a parent.

"Yes," she said firmly. "Of course I'll still come and see you after I graduate."

She felt James relax in her arms, relief washing over him.

She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the fire, their bond and their bodies warm her.

For the first time in months, she felt calm. She knew what she had to do to achieve freedom: she would be the best student, the best agent, she could possibly be. The years would fly by. They would reward her for her good work with time off.

It was a foolproof plan, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darling readers!
> 
> I don't think I will get the next chapter written before the 25th December, so I just want to wish you all a very happy Christmas <3 I hope you have a lovely, peaceful day. Consider this chapter an early Christmas gift from me to you :)
> 
> If you want to "give" me something in return, then your lovely comments always put a big smile on my face, hint hint ;) (Although, seriously, I appreciate all of you who are following this story, whether you're a regular commenter or a silent lurker *blows kisses*)
> 
> Teaser: The next chapter will be titled "The Hospital Fire". There will be a hospital. And a fire. But how will Natasha fit into it...?


	11. The Hospital Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/155123215396/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)

1999 – Aged 15

 

* * *

 

Around a year has passed since Natasha had made the decision to be the best Red Room Academy student she could be.

Madame B was impressed by the girl's renewed dedication to her studies. If she was doing well before, then she was doing terrifically now. She was getting some of the highest grades in her class, and her performance on missions was exemplary.

During her weekly mentoring sessions, she seemed focused and sharp. She was constantly asking questions on how to improve some technique or skill. Madame B was more than happy to provide her with the answers.

Madame B flicked through Natasha's file. She had not shown any sign of rebellion or deviance during the last year. A few weeks before, Madame B had read the girls some poetry, just to see Natasha's reaction.

For a moment, she thought she had seen something flash in the girl's eyes, but a moment later it was gone, replaced with a bored expression and an irritated sigh. She had shown no outward interest in the poetry. She was nothing like the spellbound girl who had sat enthralled, her face flushed with pleasure, when Madame B had read out Alexander Pushkin's poem "Confession" three years earlier.

Madame B was pleased.

The programme was working.

With the right guidance, it seemed that Natasha had overcome the small spark of rebellion that had once burned within her.

Either that or she was a very good actor...

Madame B shook the troubling thought away, refocusing her attention on the mission papers she had prepared for Natasha, Tatiana and Katerina. The three girls should be arriving any second now. She had sent Vladimir to bring them to her office five minutes ago.

As if on cue, she heard the soft shuffling of footsteps in the corridor outside, followed by a knock on her door.

"Come in," she called, fixing a smile on her face as she watched her three best students enter the room and take their seats opposite her. "Good morning, girls."

"Good morning, Madame B," they chorused back.

Madame B gave herself a moment to simply look at the three girls. They were growing up fast. They were more like young women now, rather than little girls. Natasha's curly red hair had a voluptuous appeal, her green eyes bright and alluring. Katerina was also stunning, although her colouring was much more Scandinavian, with her platinum blonde hair and dark blue eyes. Tatiana was plainer, flat-chested, with limp mousy brown hair, but her pale blue eyes were bright and alert. They were intelligent, watchful, calculating eyes.

The three girls had great potential. They were the best in their class by far; the most intelligent, the most resourceful, the most dangerous.

Madame B felt her chest swell with pride. She had raised these girls. They were  _her_ children – not biologically, but in every other way that counted.

Their dangerousness was a double-edged sword, however. It was a cause for pride, yes, but it was also a cause for caution.

Such danger had to be controlled.

Madame B – and the KGB more widely – needed to make sure that they were in full control of these girls.

That was the purpose of today's mission. It was a test. A test of obedience. A test to see if the girls would follow any instruction, no matter how awful, no matter how against their moral code or better judgement it may be. Madame B needed to know that the girls would obey any instruction, for the simple reason that she had instructed them to do it.

"Did Vladimir tell you why I wanted to see you?" she asked with a smile.

The girls shook their heads, looking both curious and confused.

"I have a mission for you," she said, sliding the mission brief over the table.

Natasha, who was sat in the middle, picked up the sheet of paper. Tatiana and Katerina leaned in from either side to read it too.

"You want us to burn down a hospital in Murmansk?" said Natasha as she scanned through the document, a note of surprise in her voice.

"That's right," said Madame B. "St. Anastasia's Hospital."

Her lips stretched into a smile. She had deliberately not mentioned what type of hospital it was in the mission brief. She wanted it to be a surprise for the girls. It was important to see how they would react naturally in a situation where they might suddenly find themselves faced with unpalatable orders.

"You must set the hospital alight in such a way that it will kill as many of the occupants as possible," she continued. "If any of the people escape, let them. Don't pursue them. Let the fire do the killing."

She watched the three girls carefully, mentally cataloguing their reactions. Tatiana had leaned back in her chair, seemingly at ease with the mission. Katerina was smiling, a look of sadistic pleasure on her face. Natasha, however, was still frowning slightly in confusion.

Looking up at Madame B, she slowly placed the mission brief back on the table.

"Excuse me, Madame B, but I don't understand the purpose of the mission," said Natasha. "If there's someone at the hospital that the KGB wants to kill, surely there are less conspicuous ways to do it than this?"

Madame B’s eyes narrowed.

"The purpose of the mission is none of your concern, Natasha," she said, her tone icy. "You will do the mission, as it has been specified in the mission brief, because you've been told to do so. Your purpose is to obey orders, not to question them."

Natasha's mouth snapped shut, her cheeks flushing bright red.

The tension in the room ratcheted up a notch. Silence spun between the four of them, stretching out like a spider’s web.

"Do you have a particular strategy in mind, Madame B?" asked Tatiana, smoothly stepping in before the mood in the room could get any more heated.

Madame B leaned back in her chair, lacing her hands together as she observed the three girls.

"No," she said. "The strategy is up you."

They fell into silence. Madame B observed the girls carefully, looking for any signs of reluctance, but they all finally seemed to have accepted the mission brief. The troubled look had left Natasha's face, having been replaced by a pensive expression which probably meant she was now plotting the various ways in which the mission could be carried out.

"If you have no further questions, you may begin. The next train to Murmansk leaves the station in one hour. Vladimir will drive you to the station, but from there, you'll be on your own."

The three girls stood up to leave. As they reached the door, Madame B called out to them.

"This is a very important mission," she said, staring at the girls intently. "Do you understand, girls? This is a test. If you fail, there will be consequences."

The meaning behind her words was abundantly clear.

Madame B did not tolerate failure.

If they failed, their continued existence would not be tolerated either.

 

* * *

 

Their journey to the hospital was an uneventful one.

Natasha had pickpocketed a local in order to obtain the money for the three of them to take the train to Murmansk.

Once they had arrived, they had read a map outside the train station and easily navigated their way to the hospital on foot.

They had not yet obtained any of the fire-starting equipment. They had agreed to take a good look at the hospital first, in order to work out the best strategy to achieve maximum carnage. Once they knew what type of building they were dealing with, then they would be able to start putting together a plan.

They were walking down St. Anastasia's Street, carefully counting the blocks as they neared their destination.

"It should be on the next block," murmured Tatiana, as they crossed an intersecting road.

The girls approached their target slowly. St. Anastasia's Hospital was set back from the road, away from the pavement and the surrounding buildings, encased in a large garden.

Natasha smiled at her classmates. The building's isolation should work to their advantage. They would not have to worry so much about attracting the attention of others.

As they drew level with the building and moved cautiously towards the front door, however, Natasha's smile turned into a frown.

She read the plaque outside the front door. And then re-read it, just to make sure she was reading it correctly.

On the plaque, in ornate lettering, was engraved the full name of the hospital.

_St. Anastasia's Maternity Hospital._

"It's a maternity hospital," Natasha said numbly, before shaking her head and repeating it again, as if to make sure it was real. "A maternity hospital, with mothers and their newborn babies."

She felt faintly sick as horror rose in her chest.

The people here were not the enemies of the KGB. They were not the enemies of Russia; they were the  _future_ of Russia. The babies, the  _babies_... It was impossible for them to have done anything against the KGB's principles or the Russian government's regime; they had literally only just been born.

Natasha had to take a deep breath and bite down on her lower lip to avoid shouting out an obscenity or spewing the contents of her stomach onto the floor.

What Madame B was asking them to do was beyond terrible; it was evil.

The mothers and babies in St. Anastasia's hospital were innocent. Killing them did not wipe out an enemy or send out a statement. Even when Natasha had killed Drakov's daughter, it had been to punish her father for selling KGB secrets to the British. There had been a point.

But the order to kill the occupants of St. Anastasia's Maternity Hospital was pointless. Cruelly and horrifically pointless. Natasha almost wanted to cry with confusion.

Her classmates seemed oblivious to the emotional battle taking place within her.

"A maternity hospital, yes!" said Katerina, her blue eyes shining with excitement. "This is an even softer target than a normal hospital!"

Katerina's face was contorted into a cruel smile. It took a substantial amount of Natasha's self-control not to punch the grin off the other girl's face.

"Let's talk tactics," said Tatiana, walking away from the front door and towards a bench that was situated in the hospital garden.

The other girls followed her, sitting down on the bench and gazing up at the hospital.

"I propose that right before we start the fire, we seal off the exits so that they can't escape," said Tatiana.

Katerina nodded enthusiastically, as if it were the best thing she had ever heard. "See those heavy rubbish bins over there?" Katerina pointed to the side of the hospital, where two large bins were clearly visible. "We could drag those in front of the doors."

Natasha's stomach tightened. She knew that she had to play an active part in this massacre, otherwise she would be kicked off the Red Room Academy programme.  _Killed_... She had to take part in this, otherwise she would never get to taste freedom.

"No, we shouldn't do that," said Natasha. "The noise would attract too much attention. We should go inside and look for the key. All we need to do is lock the front door. It doesn't look like there are any other exits. The hospital was clearly built before fire regulations were introduced."

She hated herself the moment the words left her mouth. The thought of killing innocent mothers and infants repulsed her.

She tried to switch off her emotions, the way she usually did whilst on missions, but it did not work. She could still feel every ounce of disgust and loathing that this hateful mission was whipping up. She dug her fingernails into her palms, forcing herself to focus.

"I agree," said Tatiana. "Natasha's idea is better. Katerina, I want you to go and find us some petrol and matches. Natasha and I will go into the hospital to look for the front door key. Let's re-group at this bench once we've done that. OK?"

Her pale blue eyes stared at her classmates, her expression serious. Natasha and Katerina looked straight back, nodding. Tatiana was the strategist. The other girls gladly let her be in charge of mission strategy; she was brilliant at it.

The three of them stood up. Katerina slipped away, quickly exiting the hospital grounds in search of petrol and matches.

Natasha looked at Tatiana, trying to keep her hands from shaking. She just had to focus on the mission. She had killed people countless times before. This was nothing new.

"Let's go," said Tatiana, her pale blue eyes clear and steady. "If anyone asks, I'm pregnant and I want an appointment with a doctor to discuss the pregnancy. You're a friend with me for moral support."

Natasha nodded mutely, not knowing what to say. She had no idea if it was a believable cover story or not; Madame B had not included sex education in their social studies classes.

They slipped inside the hospital, keeping their heads down as they walked through the corridors, surveying everything that was going on around them.

The hospital seemed to be in a state of organised chaos. They counted roughly fifty mothers, all either in labour or with newborn babies, but only one doctor and two midwives. The staff were stretched to their limit, rushing from patient to patient, a haggard, desperate look on all their faces.

The chaos suited Natasha and Tatiana; the doctor and midwives did not spare them a glance, allowing them to easily slip into the staffroom unseen.

"Did you notice how all the windows had bars on them?" muttered Tatiana. "That works to our advantage. If we can lock the front door, there'll be no escape route."

Natasha nodded. "Yes, I saw that," she said quietly.

They began searching the staffroom, meticulously going through desk drawers, lockers and coat pockets. Natasha had examined the front door's lock before they had entered the hospital; they were looking for a large, bronze key.

Natasha picked up one of the coats. It was a nice coat, heavy and warm, with a fur-lined hood. Good for Russian winters. Her fingers slipped into the outer pocket and closed around something heavy and metallic. Her breath hitched as she pulled out the key.

It was large and bronze.

"I think I've found the front door key," she said.

Tatiana immediately dropped the coat she was rifling through and came to Natasha's side to peer at the key.

She nodded, a pleased expression on her face.

"Yes, that looks like the key. Well done, Natasha," she said.

The words had barely left her mouth when they heard the creak of a floorboard outside the room. Both girls whipped around in time to see the staffroom door open and one of the midwives step in.

The midwife was a plump, middle-aged woman, with curly brown hair and a red face. She stopped abruptly when she saw Natasha and Tatiana standing there, a confused frown settling on her face.

"What are you girls doing?" she said. "This is a staff area; you don't have permission to be here."

Tatiana gave a false, tinkling laugh. "I'm so sorry, my friend and I got lost," she gushed. "We were looking for the reception. I'm pregnant and I'd like to make an appointment, you see."

The midwife's frown deepened. "You don't look pregnant," she said flatly.

Tatiana's eyes rounded, as if she were offended. "Excuse me? I am! I'm just not showing yet!"

"And the reception is directly in front of the front entrance," the midwife continued, her tone becoming more and more suspicious with every passing second. "You would have walked  _through_ the reception to get here!"

Tatiana fell silent. Natasha noticed the way her stance changed subtly. Tatiana placed her feet a little further apart, bending her knees ever so slightly; ready to launch herself at the woman.

The midwife's eyes fell onto the key in Natasha's hand. Natasha immediately closed her hand around the key and shoved it behind her back, but the damage had already been done. The midwife had seen the key.

"What are you doing with that key?" the midwife demanded. "Are you thieves? Have you come to steal from the hospital? Answer me now or I'll call the police!"

Tatiana moved so fast that Natasha barely had time to process what was happening. One moment, she was standing by Natasha's side. The next, she had tackled the midwife to the floor, her arms around the woman's neck in a tight, unforgiving headlock. She twisted her arms once, snapping the woman's neck.

The sound sent a violent shiver down Natasha's spine. For a moment, she was transported back to the Red Room Academy three years ago, listening to Katerina snap Elena's neck in just the same way, watching Elena's blank, dead eyes staring at her.

She shook her head hard, forcing the nightmare vision out of her mind. The scene dissipated slowly, the large, grand, marble-floored room in the Red Room Academy gradually being replaced by the cramped maternity hospital staffroom.

By the time Natasha had fully returned to the present day, Tatiana had already dragged the midwife's corpse into the staffroom cupboard, covering her body with a blanket.

"Do you need a hand?" she mumbled, feeling inadequate and annoyed with herself for just standing around.

"No, it's fine," said Tatiana, closing the cupboard door and hiding the body from view. "Right, you go to the front door and make sure that it's the right key. I'm just going to check that there are no other external doors. I'll meet you at the bench we were sitting on earlier."

Natasha nodded. The instructions calmed her down, the clear-headedness of the other girl having a soothing effect.

Without a word, she slipped from the staffroom and quickly made her way to the front door. The reception was unmanned, and there were no patients milling around the entrance, which meant that Natasha was able to get on with her job without arousing suspicion.

As quickly as she could, she closed the door and pushed the key into the lock, twisting it clockwise. The door locked with a smooth click. Satisfied, she quickly unlocked the door and opened it, leaving it as it had been before. Pocketing the key, she walked casually towards the bench they had been sat on earlier.

She only had to wait a few minutes before Tatiana joined her, sitting down next to Natasha with a small frown on her face.

"There's a back door as well," said Tatiana. Well, that explained the frown. "It looks like it has the same lock as the front door, but this could complicate things a little bit. We'll have to lock both doors before we start the fire."

Natasha nodded, trying to think of the best way to carry out the next stage of their plan.

"The key is the right one," she said, to fill the silence. "I tested it on the front door. It worked."

Tatiana smiled, nodding politely. "Good," she said, before lapsing into silence once more.

They sat there for about another hour before Katerina returned, a large rucksack that had most definitely not been in her possession before slung over her shoulder.

"A box of matches and a whole canister of petrol," she muttered, as she sat down next to Natasha on the bench. She placed the rucksack on the ground and opened the top to show the contents to her classmates. Natasha craned her neck to see. It was a large canister of petrol, and it was full. Katerina had made sure that they had plenty of fuel for their mission.

Natasha's stomach clenched momentarily. This mission was going to have a high casualty rate.

"Well done, Katerina," said Tatiana, ignoring the way the blonde preened at the praise. "I've come up with a plan. Natasha and I will go into the hospital. I'll lock the back door whilst Natasha runs through the hospital and spills petrol everywhere. I suggest puncturing a smallish hole in the container so that it leaks continuously as your run. Once we're both safely out and we've locked the front door, Katerina will light the petrol. If Natasha does her bit right, then it should spread through the entire hospital pretty much instantly. I doubt there will be any survivors."

Natasha felt cold dread seeping through her body. Clenching her jaw, she nodded tightly to show her approval of the plan.

It was just another mission. She could do this. It was what she had to do for freedom.

"OK," she said, letting out a shaky exhale. "Let's do this."

The three girls stood up.

Tatiana held out her hand expectantly. After a moment, Natasha realised what she wanted and pulled the heavy bronze key from her pocket and dropped it in Tatiana's hand.

Natasha bent down and pulled the canister of petrol from the bag, before pulling a knife from her pocket. She would puncture the container the moment she was inside.

Katerina fiddled with the box of matches.

"Don't start the fire until we're out," joked Natasha, trying to force a laugh.

Katerina gave her a strange expression, both humour and fear flashing in her eyes for a moment, before being replaced with a blank, evasive look. "Duh," she said moodily, her casual tone seeming somewhat at odds with her obviously tense body language.

Natasha tried to exchange a glance with Tatiana, but the other girl had apparently not noticed Katerina's strange behaviour. She was staring down at the key in her hand and taking deep breaths.

Natasha recognised what she was doing. She was psyching herself up for the mission. Natasha felt a rush of gladness that she was not the only one having trouble accepting this mission.

"Right," said Tatiana, after a long pause. "Let's go."

The three girls moved as one, silently gliding towards the hospital door as if they were ghosts.

Natasha and Tatiana slipped inside the building.

Tatiana immediately headed towards the back of the building, making her way through the maze of corridors to seal off the rear exit.

Natasha jabbed the container with her knife, giving a grim smile as it immediately began to leak petrol at exactly the right speed. Shooting Katerina one final look, she began making her way through the hospital, running silently through every single corridor, petrol leaking behind her.

Her mind was strangely blank. She was in mission mode. This was just another job. She could do this. She  _had_ to do this. Killing mothers and babies was the price she had to pay for freedom.

She was moving calmly through the final two corridors when a terrible whooshing noise roared up behind her.

Natasha turned just in time to see the fire rushing up towards her.

With a cry, she flung the canister of petrol away, diving to the side to avoid the hungry flames licking along the floor and the sides of the corridors.

Desperate screams erupted all around her, as the mothers realised that they and their babies were trapped inside a burning prison.

Natasha had deliberately sloshed petrol on the doors connecting the wards to the corridors. There was no way they were going to get out of the wards.

Thick plumes of black smoke rolled down the corridor. Natasha tore off a strip of her dress and held it to her nose and mouth, dropping to the floor to avoid the worst of the smoke as she groped her way down the corridor.

Fear and anger boiled inside of her. Katerina had started the fire early. Suddenly, her strange behaviour started to make sense.

This was not an accident. Katerina had started the fire early on purpose. For whatever reason, she was trying to kill them.

Natasha pushed forward, her eyes streaming and her skin prickling against the searing heat from the fire and the itchy, toxic smoke.

Her head began to swim. She shook it hard but that only made things worse. The world tilted on its axis as she crashed to the ground. She groaned, her head pounding and the corridor spinning as she tried to orient herself.

She was just two corridors away from the exit. She just had to go to the end of the corridor, turn left, and the way out would be at the end of that corridor.

She could do this.

Clutching the torn fabric of her dress over her mouth and nose, she staggered upright and started pushing herself towards the exit.

"Natasha!"

Natasha whipped around.

Tatiana's scream had been desperate, almost feral.

About 10 metres behind her, Tatiana was stood motionless, her pale blue eyes so wide that the whites were clearly visible all around them. A large wall of fire was licking behind her. A much smaller one was burning between her and Natasha.

Tatiana could make it out alive if she moved past that small fire now, before it grew any larger and cut the corridor in two, but to do that, she had to move  _now_.

"Tatiana, move!" bellowed Natasha, waving her arms frantically, urging Tatiana to run towards her.

"Help me!" cried Tatiana, not budging an inch from her spot.

Natasha stared at her classmate. Was Tatiana injured? Could she not run without help? She did not look injured. She was not bleeding. She was not holding any part of her as if it was broken or in pain. In fact, she was standing with a perfect posture, each joint seemingly locked into place.

With a rush of horror, Natasha realised why Tatiana could not move.

She was afraid.

No, not just afraid:  _terrified_.

Tatiana was too terrified to move a single muscle. Natasha could just make out the rapid rise and fall of her chest, sweat and tears making tracks down her soot-covered cheeks.

"Tatiana, come  _on_!" Natasha urged. "You have to move  _now_!"

Tatiana's eyes widened even further, her whole body shaking as she shook her head violently.

"I can't move, I can't move, I can't move..."

Natasha met her pale blue eyes. They were filled with terror. There was no way Tatiana was going to escape alive without help.

Unbidden, Madame B's voice floated across her mind.

_You must not have friends..._

Except this was not about friendship – this was about human decency, about their strength as a team, about never leaving an ally behind.

Pushing down every instinct that was screaming at her to turn in the opposite direction and flee the fire to safety, Natasha launched herself down the corridor towards Tatiana, skirting around the fire that was swirling and crackling ominously as it slowly grew in size.

Reaching Tatiana, Natasha wrapped a firm arm around her classmate, holding her upper arm in a vice-like grip.

"Come on, Tatiana," she said firmly.

She pulled and to her immense relief, this time, Tatiana moved. 

A few seconds later, an almighty crash echoed behind them. Turning around, they saw a huge pile of burning debris where Tatiana had been standing just moments before.

"Come on," repeated Natasha, hauling Tatiana further down the corridor.

Tatiana allowed Natasha to drag her past the small fire in the middle of the corridor and around the corner, sobbing with relief when she finally saw a rectangle of daylight from the open front door.

The two girls staggered outside, collapsing on the grass as they breathed in huge lungfuls of clean, pure air.

Natasha had never been so grateful to feel cool grass against her burning hot skin.

The feeling of gratefulness dissipated as soon as she saw platinum blonde hair hovering in the periphery of her vision.

Quick as a flash, she was on her feet, grabbing Katerina by the front of her coat and shaking her violently.

"What the  _hell_ , Katerina?" she spat, her voice shaking with anger.

Behind her, Tatiana was still sobbing on the ground.

"Are you trying to kill us?"

Katerina's eyes flashed angrily, a bitter expression on her face. "It was an accident, OK? I dropped the match too early. It wasn't on purpose."

Natasha stared at her incredulously. Katerina refused to meet her eye.

With a sigh of disgust, Natasha pushed the blonde haired girl away.

Katerina wore her heart on her sleeve; she was a terrible liar.

It had been no accident.

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, the three girls sat in sullen silence in front of Madame B's desk.

Madame B frowned. She could sense the tension and hostility radiating off the girls in waves. Even Tatiana looked furious, which was astonishing considering her usual emotionless state.

The teacher's frown deepened. Something bad had clearly happened in St. Anastasia's Hospital. She wondered if perhaps they had fought about killing the mothers and babies.

"Did you complete the mission successfully?" she asked.

"Yes," snapped Natasha, before falling once more into silence, glowering at Madame B's desk.

"What else happened?" said Madame B, speaking slowly and clearly, making sure that the girls understood that such disrespectful tones would not be tolerated in her office.

"Katerina tried to kill us," blurted out Natasha, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "She set fire to the hospital while Tatiana and I were still inside. She was supposed to wait for us to get out."

Madame B's eyes widened, before she turned to Katerina with a furious expression. Natasha and Tatiana were two of the best students in their year. She did not take kindly to Katerina trying to kill two of the Red Room Academy's finest prodigies.

"Is this true?" she said icily.

Katerina blushed bright red. She hated being told off by Madame B.

"It was an accident," she whined. "And aren't we going to talk about the fact that Natasha doubled back to save Tatiana's life? Why did she do that? Are the two of them  _friends_?"

Natasha ground her teeth together and clenched her fists as Madame B's piercing gaze swivelled to focus on her.

"Tatiana and I are allies, not friends," she gritted out. "I saved her life because we were on a mission together. We were supposed to work together as a team. I saved Tatiana to save the team. Where were you, Katerina? You didn't try to save us; you're a poor team member, you little bitch!"

Katerina snarled and stamped her foot angrily.

"Fuck you, Natasha!" she spat.

Madame B stood up abruptly, glaring down at them.

"Natasha and Katerina," she said. "There is clearly a great deal of animosity between the two of you. Is this something that needs to be settled by a spar?"

The temperature in the office seemed to plummet by several degrees as the girls realised what Madame B meant.

A spar.

With one winner.

One survivor.

"Yes," said Natasha.

There were a few seconds of silence in which all eyes turned to Katerina, watching the way her face twisted with bitterness.

"Yes," Katerina said finally.

Madame B smiled, walking around the desk to lay a hand on Natasha and Katerina's shoulders.

"Tatiana, you may go back to your dormitory now," she said, without looking at her. "Natasha and Katerina, follow me."

Natasha followed Madame B down the maze-like corridors of the Red Room Academy. After a few minutes of walking, a sickening wave of realisation swept over her; they were walking towards the same room where Katerina and Elena had sparred.

They entered the marble-floored room, their footsteps echoing slightly off the high ceiling.

Madame B handed them gym clothes from a small pile in the corner of the room.

Wordlessly, Natasha and Katerina stripped, quickly removing their uniforms and putting on the t-shirts, shorts and trainers.

As Natasha finished lacing up her shoes, she looked up Katerina. The other girl was smirking, placing both hands on either side of her head and pretending to snap her own neck.

The meaning was clear:  _I killed Elena. You're next._

Natasha snarled, a hot wave of hatred and anger flaring up inside of her. How dare Katerina make light of Elena's death? How dare she set fire to St. Anastasia's Hospital with her and Tatiana inside?

She hated Katerina.

She wanted her dead.

The thought swelled and expanded to fill her entire mind. Wave after wave of hatred rolled and boiled inside of her. She hated Katerina. The bitch had killed Elena. The bitch had tried to kill Natasha. Now Natasha was going to kill her.

She was only vaguely aware of Madame B speaking to them both, explaining that there must only be one survivor of their sparring match. Her attention was focused on Katerina, hating every single inch of her pale body, every single strand of platinum blonde hair.

Katerina was grinning openly now, relishing the impending fight, the chance to either establish herself as superior to Natasha or die trying.

Madame B let go of their shoulders.

They launched themselves at one another, smashing together with a sickening thud.

Natasha immediately went for Katerina's neck, trying to get her into a headlock just like Katerina had done to Elena all those years previously.

Seeing what Natasha was trying to do, Katerina twisted out of the way, aiming a few punches at Natasha's unprotected belly as she did so.

Natasha gasped as the wind was knocked out of her, doubling over as her eyes watered with pain.

Twisting to the side, she used the momentum of her body to wrap a leg around Katerina's waist, moving violently from side to side as she tried to unbalance the other girl and bring her down onto the floor.

Planting her other foot hard against the ground, she gave an enormous heave, toppling Katerina over and onto the ground.

The blonde's head hit the ground hard, a loud crack echoing around the room.

Natasha straddled her chest, wrapping her hands around Katerina's throat and squeezing.

"Natasha, please..." rasped Katerina, her large blue eyes filling with fear, silently pleading with her for mercy.

A wave of nausea swept over Natasha. She recognised that look. It was the same piteous look that she had given Elena, right before she had overpowered her and snapped her neck.

It was a trick.

Natasha blinked hard against the tears that threatened to spill over her cheeks and squeezed harder, watching as the blood vessels burst in Katerina's eyes, her face slowly going from red to purple as Natasha throttled the life out of her.

At some point, Natasha saw when the fear in Katerina's eyes went from being fake to being real. She watched as Katerina's eyes widened, the realisation that Natasha was going to win this sparring match hitting her like an invisible train.

Natasha could feel Katerina's pulse becoming weaker and erratic under her fingers as she squeezed her neck mercilessly, depriving her brain of oxygen.

Her hands still tightly clenched around Katerina's throat, Natasha bent over Katerina so that her lips were brushing against her the blonde's ear. She spoke quietly, so that Katerina could hear her but Madame B could not.

"This is for Elena, you evil little bitch," she whispered.

The pulse under her fingers stuttered and faded.

She held onto Katerina's throat for another five minutes, just to make sure she was well and truly dead, only moving away when Madame B laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and pulled her away from Katerina's cooling corpse.

"Well done, Natasha," said Madame B, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Natasha collapsed onto her back, breathing hard.

She had killed Katerina.

She had killed the girl who had killed Elena.

The anger seeped out of her, being replaced with a bitter sense of exhaustion. She was so tired. All she wanted was to crawl into bed and have Elena's arms holding her tight. To kill Katerina and for Elena still to be dead seemed mightily unfair. It was a hollow victory.

Vladimir entered the room to take away Katerina's body.

She would be buried around the back of the school, as was customary for all students who failed the Red Room Academy's strict programme.

He glanced over at Natasha, his eyes sweeping over the 15 year old's sweaty, panting body.

Adjusting his trousers, he met Madame B's eyes.

The woman followed his gaze to Natasha lying prone on the floor and licked her lips.

"Soon," she mouthed, a seductive smirk pulling at her lips. "Soon."

 

* * *

 

Natasha lay awake long after Madame B had handcuffed them to their beds and said goodnight.

Katerina's bed had been removed, which meant that there were now only 10 students in their class of 15 year olds.

The room felt strangely empty, but it was not that that was keeping Natasha awake.

Her mind was restless, constantly flicking between memories of Elena, the events at St. Anastasia's Maternity Hospital and flashbacks of Katerina lying dead on the marble floor.

"Natasha?" came a whisper from the next bed.

Natasha rubbed her eyes before sighing and abandoning all attempts at sleeping, sitting up, her handcuff's chain jangling softly in the silence of the dormitory.

"Yeah?" she whispered.

There was silence from the next bed for a long while, and Natasha almost assumed that Tatiana had fallen asleep when she spoke again.

"Thank you," Tatiana said quietly. "For saving my life. I'd be dead if it weren't for you."

Natasha smiled in the darkness, a soft puff of air escaping her lips.

"It's fine," she replied. "Forget about it."

Tatiana sat up in her bed, her pale blue eyes seeking out Natasha's in the darkness.

"No," she said firmly. "Thank you. I owe you a debt."

Natasha sat silently for a while, mulling this over. Tatiana owed her a debt. Debts could be useful. Perhaps it would be wise not to forget it.

"OK," she said eventually. "You owe me a debt. I'll remember that. Maybe one day when I need a favour, I'll come find you and you can repay it."

Apparently satisfied with that arrangement, Tatiana lay back down. After a few minutes, her breathing became slower and deeper as she succumbed to sleep.

Sighing, Natasha lay back down as well and, eventually, slipped into her own sleep.

She dreamed of fire, blue eyes and Elena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was chapter 11 out of 34, which means we are now around one third of the way through this story! Are you enjoying it? Please, please, let me know your thoughts!
> 
> Teaser: The next chapter will be called "Lessons In Seduction". It will be a very dark, but very important, chapter. It will also introduce another character who will play an important part in this overall story.


	12. Lessons In Seduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE ENORMOUS CHAPTER WARNING: Explicit sexual content, including non-consensual sexual content.
> 
> If you think this will be a triggering read for you, then I advise skipping to the "Notes" at the bottom of this chapter, where I will summarise, non-explicitly, the key points that you need to take away from this chapter.
> 
> This is an important chapter that affects future plotlines, so please do at least read the summary at the bottom, otherwise you will get confused when you read subsequent chapters.
> 
> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/155353941366/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)

2000 – Aged 16

 

* * *

 

It was the beginning of another school year and Natasha and her classmates were led to their new classroom.

The move was largely symbolic; it was furnished in exactly the same way as their previous classroom – 10 desks for the girls, 1 larger desk for Madame B, bookcases along the walls – but Madame B felt it was important to change classrooms every academic year, in order to give the girls a sense of progress.

Natasha chose a desk on the front row and waited for Madame B to give the girls their usual dull annual spiel about how they were one year closer to being KGB agents and how Madame B expected more from them than ever before.

"This is the beginning of a new academic year," said Madame B. "You are now all 16 years old. You may sit down."

Natasha pulled out her chair and sat down neatly, pulling it back under her desk and resting her hands on her lap.

It was only then that she noticed something strange: Vladimir was stood in the corner of the room, his arms crossed as he leant casually against the wall, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Vladimir generally only appeared to help out with combat training or to take students on missions that were far away enough to warrant the minibus. It was extremely unusual for him to be present during normal lessons.

Natasha wondered what he was doing there.

"You may be expecting me to give you a long speech about your impending roles as KGB agents," said Madame B, her eyes flicking to Natasha briefly as she did so, causing the girl to blush. "This year I will refrain from doing so, however. You already know how important you are to the future of our country. You already know that your work for the KGB will be invaluable, and that they and I have the highest expectations of you. I see little point in continuing to labour a point that you no doubt already fully understand."

Natasha gave a small sigh of relief. The beginning of year speeches were infamously dull. She would usually tune out Madame B and allow her mind to wander, daydreaming about mission tactics, weapons, poetry or freedom. She was immensely glad that Madame B had decided that The Speech was no longer necessary.

"I also don't want to waste any more time," continued Madame B. "There is one part of your education that, so far, you have been entirely lacking, and it is time to correct this with immediate effect. Thus far, you have been trained extensively in hand-to-hand combat, the use of weapons, espionage, military strategy, social behaviour and tactics for manipulation. These are all very important skills that will allow you to exploit various weaknesses of your enemies. There is another weakness, however, that you have not yet been taught how to exploit. Now that you are all 16 years old, you are old enough to start this new aspect of your training."

Natasha cocked her head to the side curiously. She had no idea what Madame B was talking about. What new skill were they to learn? And if it were so important, why had they not been taught about it before? Glancing surreptitiously at her classmates, she saw that they all looked equally mystified too.

"Seduction," said Madame B.

The three syllables echoed around the silent room, sending a shiver around the class.

Madame B reached behind her and slowly began unzipping her pale blue dress, the quiet noise of the zip filling Natasha's ears.

"The age of consent in Russia is 16," said Madame B, shimmying the dress down her body and slowly stepping out of it. "Now that you are 16 years old, it is time for you to learn how to use your body as a weapon."

She kicked her dress away, standing in front of the class in matching black lingerie. Her bra and knickers were lacy, hugging and accentuating her curves, revealing her shape but leaving just enough to the imagination. She turned slowly in front of the class, feeling the eyes of the girls following her slow, deliberate movements.

"You are young women now," continued Madame B. "Men will be attracted to you. They will want to have sex with you. Men are simple creatures; they are driven by lust. If your target is a man, sometimes the most effective way to get him to spill his secrets, or to get close enough to kill him, is to seduce him."

She ran her hands up and down her body, a frisson of excitement going through her as ten sets of eyes stared at her. She cupped her breasts, pressing them together to accentuate her cleavage, before slowly trailing a hand down between her legs and running her fingers up and down the edge of her knickers.

"Sometimes, your target will be an attractive man. In such cases, you may find that you rather enjoy the missions. In other cases, your target will be someone whom you find distinctly unattractive. This does not matter. Even if you are not attracted to him, you must fake it. Seduction is little more than acting. You must learn to play the role of seductress. If you master this skill, it will be one of the most important and deadly weapons in your arsenal."

Madame B slowly started walking around the classroom, leaning in close to every girl, giving them a good look at her nearly-nude body.

Natasha sat rigidly in her chair, her mouth drying up with horror as she watched Madame B slowly approaching her desk. She suddenly wished she had chosen a seat at the back of the class.

Madame B sat down on Natasha's desk, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she did so. The movement caused Natasha to automatically glance down, before her eyes snapped back up a split second later.

Her cheeks flushed with shame, fear and embarrassment. Madame B had raised her since she was 3 years old. To have to watch her parade herself in such an openly sexual way sent shivers of horror down her spine. It felt obscene, almost incestuous.

"Some men will want you to be submissive and passive," said Madame B, finally getting up off Natasha's desk and moving on to circle Tatiana. "Some men will want a more fiery woman. Some men may even enjoy being dominated. You must learn to read their body language and facial expressions to discover exactly what they enjoy. And once you work out what they want, you must give it to them."

Natasha brought a hand to her mouth and bit down on her finger to try to quell the feeling of nausea that was threatening to claw its way up her throat.

Madame B wanted them to learn the art of seduction. Of course, on a logical level, Natasha could understand that it was an extremely useful skill to have. Most of their targets were men, and most men were attracted to women. It made sense that they should learn to exploit this weakness.

And yet... The thought of having to have sex with a target – indeed, the thought of having to have sex with  _anyone_ – filled Natasha with a mixture of dread and disgust.

"How will we learn how to seduce a target?" she asked, speaking out loud and trying to engage in the lesson in a vain attempt to distract herself from the swirling doubts that were filling her mind.

Madame B smiled, her blue eyes darkening as she licked her lips slowly.

Natasha suppressed a shudder.

"We will watch pornography," said Madame B softly. "And next week, you will all have sex with Vladimir."

Natasha's eyes slammed back onto Vladimir, who was still leaning against the wall, his smirk now stretched out into a wide grin.

His eyes flicked towards Natasha, and the look on his face made her almost choke on her own saliva.

He looked more than hungry; he looked ravenous, like a predator about to pounce on its prey.

 

* * *

 

That afternoon, they had their first lesson watching pornography.

Madame B led the girls to the projector room.

Natasha remembered when they had watched Disney films and combat videos there in primary school. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Madame B put the film reel in the projector and turned off the lights, plunging them into momentary darkness before the film began.

Natasha gripped the sides of her seat tightly. She glanced to the side to look at Tatiana, to see if the other girl was as disturbed by this as she was, but the look on Tatiana's face was blank and impassive.

The sudden brightness of the screen jerked Natasha's attention back to the film. A disclaimer had appeared on the screen, stating that all the actors featured were aged 18 or over and giving details of the production company.

Natasha glanced away nervously, the palms of her hands suddenly sticky with sweat. She wondered if Madame B would notice if she closed her eyes.

Madame B's voice was much closer than anticipated when she spoke. "Watch the screen, girls," she said, her voice low and threatening. "This is an important part of your education."

Swallowing past a lump in her throat, Natasha turned her gaze back to the screen, where a man and a woman were standing in a kitchen, having just finished eating a candlelit dinner.

"I've got to say, that was delicious," the man on the screen was saying. "But I have to admit, I'm most looking forward to eating  _you_ for dessert."

Natasha cringed at the cheesy pick-up line, wrinkling her nose slightly in disgust when the man leaned forward to wrap his arms around the woman, stroking up and down her back as he drew her in for a deep kiss.

For a long while, the couple on the screen continued kissing. The man's hands were wandering over the woman's body, stroking up to trace the shape of her breasts before plunging back down to cup and massage her ass. The woman was moaning softly, gripping the front of his shirt as he continued his ministrations.

The woman on the screen tipped her head back, exposing her throat, which was immediately licked and nibbled by the man, who was becoming friskier with every passing minute.

"Let's go to the bedroom," said the man, his voice deep and wrecked with lust.

He gripped the woman by the hand, leading her quickly up the stairs, the camera following a few steps behind, the angle revealing a peak of the woman's red panties from under her dress.

The couple tumbled into a bedroom, the man pushing the woman onto her back on the bed whilst he wrestled off his shirt and trousers. Within seconds, he had stripped down to his underwear, before he climbed onto the bed to join his partner, crawling up the bed until he was crouched above her.

"Beautiful," he murmured, gripping a handful of the woman's dress and ripping it from top to bottom, pulling it off her roughly.

The woman gasped as the man lifted her up slightly and unhooked her bra, flinging it away to reveal her breasts. The man cupped and squeezed them enthusiastically, occasionally dipping his head down to lick and suck on her nipples, teasing them into hardness using a combination of his tongue and his pinching fingers.

Natasha's eyes widened. She was 16 years old; she had breasts. She saw the breasts of her classmates when they got changed at the beginning and end of every day. But somehow, the breasts on the screen seemed much more disturbing. To see them handled so roughly, pinched and squeezed and licked so thoroughly, seemed obscene.

Natasha flushed bright red. The camera zoomed in on the breasts, showing the nipples hardened into erect nubs. Natasha almost looked away, ashamed of her voyeurism, before she remembered Madame B's instruction to watch the screen.

Forcing herself to concentrate on the film, she saw that the man had removed the woman's red panties and was now spreading her lips apart to lick her in her most intimate area.

A girl behind her gasped at the sight. The girls had heard about various sexual activities, of course. They knew about oral sex. Simply knowing of its existence could not adequately prepare them for seeing it, up close and filling the entire screen, however.

Natasha squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. She had seen videos of people being shot, stabbed and tortured, but somehow, this felt worse. Perhaps it was the shock and the novelty of it. Perhaps it was because she herself felt no desire to engage in these activities. Perhaps there was just something wrong with her.

On the screen, the man finally sat up, removing his face from the woman's nether regions. He gripped the top of his boxers and pulled them down.

Natasha gasped.

The man's penis looked huge. Around an inch and a half wide and six inches long, it bobbed, upright and erect, between his legs. At the end was a drop of a clear substance.

Pre-ejaculatory fluid, supplied Natasha's mind numbly.

She knew the biology. She knew that in the man's testicles, which hung large and round beneath his penis, there were around 350 million sperm. She knew that sperm could survive in the female body for up to 5 days.

Her mind bombarded her with facts in a vain attempt to avoid looking at what was right in front of her, but in the end, she could not avoid it.

She looked in horror at the erect penis, which the man was now guiding towards the woman's vagina as he lay over her.

Natasha's heartbeat quickened, panic and revulsion rising in her chest as the man inserted his penis into her vagina, sliding it in slowly. It went in steadily, the woman's vagina swallowing it up until he bottomed out in her.

"This is a passive woman," said Madame B. "Many men like passive women. Watch how she behaves. She is enjoying this. You will need to copy her in the future. Watch her and remember what a woman who is enjoying herself looks like."

Natasha watched, feeling sickened, as the man started thrusting rhythmically into his partner, eliciting moans and gasps of pleasure from her. The expression on the woman's face was frightening. Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were flushed. Her mouth was hanging slightly open, her plump pink lips parted as her forehead scrunched up in an expression of ecstasy.

The groans of the two people were becoming more heated, more desperate, as they rocked their bodies together in unison, him pistoning in and out, her wrapping her arms and legs tightly around him, urging him on.

The camera zoomed in to where their bodies joined. His penis was slick with her fluids, eliciting a little squelching noise every time he pushed in and out.

Natasha's stomach flipped. Surely it must hurt, she thought desperately. She felt that if something so large entered her, she would surely just split wide open.

On the screen, the couple's moans reached a crescendo, the woman crying out just as the man groaned and gave a particularly deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt as his penis jerked and throbbed within her.

The man slowly pulled out, creamy white semen leaking out of the woman's vagina as he slipped from the warm confines of her body.

Madame B switched off the projector, the film reel slowing to a halt as the screen faded to black.

Natasha shivered, trying and failing to fight down the prickling fear that skittered over her skin.

"You may have the rest of the day off, to process what you have learnt," said Madame B, as she turned on the lights. "Tomorrow, we will watch a video with a more active woman."

Natasha got to her feet shakily. Her legs felt weak, as if they had been turned into jelly. It reminded Natasha of how she had felt after she watched her first video of someone being shot in the head, when she had been in primary school. The feelings of shock mixed with horror were exactly the same.

She left the film room and allowed her feet to carry her aimlessly around the Red Room Academy corridors. She briefly considered going outside and wandering the fields around the school, but decided against it. She did not want to run into James. She wanted to be alone.

Her mind kept flicking back to the pornographic scene she had just been forced to witness. It had felt extremely wrong, to watch such an intimate scene under the watchful eye of Madame B and surrounded by her classmates.

Having to watch such explicit sexual activity had perturbed her. She did not want to watch people having sex. It seemed intrusive, a violation of both the couple's personal space and her own.

What frightened her the most though, was the impending prospect of having to have sex. Madame B had said, in no uncertain terms, that in one week's time, she would have to have sex with Vladimir.

The thought brought bile to her throat. She had known Vladimir since she was 3 years old. He was the one who had taken her from the hospital and brought her to the Red Room Academy in the first place. In her mind, he was like a father, albeit one that she did not feel close to.

The thought of having to get naked in front of him, of having to see  _him_ naked, sent a violent shiver down her spine. He would touch her intimately. Would he expect her to perform oral sex on him? Would Madame B expect Natasha to be the more active or passive partner? How long would it last? Would Madame B be watching?

Question after question raced through her mind, echoing as loudly as her footsteps on the marble floor.

The size of the man's penis in the video terrified her. Natasha could not imagine such a huge intrusion being pushed into her body. The woman in the video had looked as if she had been experiencing pleasure, but when Natasha imagined being penetrated, all her mind conjured up was agony.

She briefly wondered if she would be spared the ordeal of having sex with Vladimir if she pretended to be ill. She immediately dismissed the idea, however. Madame B would never allow any of the girls to slip through the net like that. Either she would force them to have with him regardless, or she would simply wait for them to recover.

Sighing heavily, she discovered that her feet had carried her back to her dormitory. Perhaps she should sleep for the rest of the day, to give her mind a chance to rest.

Pushing open the dormitory door, she stepped inside, before freezing in shock, the door swinging closed behind her with a bang.

Lying on her bed, her legs thrown wide, was Tatiana. She had one slender finger inside herself, the other hand rubbing her clitoris.

At the sound of the door slamming shut, she looked up, her eyes meeting briefly Natasha's.

"Hello," she said mildly, seemingly unperturbed by Natasha's presence.

Natasha's blushed furiously as she stood rigidly on the spot, completely thrown by the fact her classmate was naked from the waist down, slowly masturbating in front of her without an ounce of shame.

"What are you doing?" Natasha managed to choke out.

She edged into the room, climbing into her own bed and hiding under the covers, looking straight up at the ceiling so that she was not staring at Tatiana.

"Masturbating," replied Tatiana.

Natasha felt her cheeks flush even redder at Tatiana's blunt answer. She coughed and swallowed with embarrassment.

"Yes, but  _why_?" she asked.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tatiana finally stop touching herself, pulling her dress down to cover herself as she wiped her hands clean on the duvet cover.

"I wanted to know what sex would feel like," said Tatiana. "I thought it would be good to be prepared, seeing as we're going to have to have sex with Vladimir next week. I figured I'd probably be less tense if I'd at least been penetrated before, even if it was just by my finger."

Natasha nodded nervously. It made sense. She found herself oddly relieved that Tatiana had been masturbating simply in preparation for their impending deflowering, rather than for her own pleasure. Sexual pleasure and desires still frightened and confused her, even after having watched the pornographic video.

"What did it feel like?" she asked curiously. She wanted to know if it really was pleasurable to have something inside you, or if the woman in the video had simply been acting.

"It felt OK," said Tatiana, shrugging. "It felt tight and kind of weird to be stretched like that at first, but once you start thinking of something sexy, then you get all wet and aroused, and then it starts to feel good."

Thinking of something sexy. Tatiana had said it as if it was the most normal thing in the world, but to Natasha, it was like a riddle.

She remembered what Elena had said in the beech tree all those years before, about wanting to kiss the pretty boy she had seen in the village. Natasha had not felt any urge to kiss the boy then, and she realised that the idea of kissing or seducing anybody still held no appeal now.

She could not think of anything 'sexy'. She did not know what that meant. She wondered if she was a freak.

Experimentally, she dipped her hands below the hem of her dress and pulled down her knickers to her knees. Slowly, she touched herself between the legs, stroking and poking gently.

She did not feel any spark of desire. It felt strange, to touch herself there. Her flesh was warm and hairy, but certainly not wet. It was about as arousing as stroking her little toe.

"You have to think of something hot," came Tatiana's voice from the next bed.

Clearly, she was watching Natasha. Natasha closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, trying not to think about her classmate's eyes on her. Think of something hot – what did that even  _mean_?

"Rub the bit at the front," offered Tatiana, as if she were providing help with an essay rather than telling her how best to masturbate. "The bit at the front feels really good, maybe even better than having a finger inside."

Begrudgingly, Natasha's followed Tatiana's instructions, rubbing all over the front of her genitals until she found the place that Tatiana had been describing, right in the middle and at the top of her lips.

Rubbing it in small circles, she had to admit that it did feel good. From inside of her, warm liquid was forming and moistening her fingers. However, 'hot' or 'sexy' thoughts still eluded her. She still had no desire to have sex, least of all with Vladimir.

Sighing, Natasha pulled her hands away from her crotch and pulled her dress back down, even though she was already covered by her duvet.

On the bed beside hers, Tatiana had resumed her previous activities, although this time she had at least retreated underneath her duvet and seemed to be making an effort to stifle her soft moans.

Closing her eyes, the memory of Vladimir's predatory grin flashed through Natasha's mind.

Her heartbeat skyrocketed.

For the first time in years, she was afraid.

 

* * *

 

The next few days passed by in a blur.

Madame B made them watch pornography, read erotica, and gave them in-depth lessons on a wide variety of kinks and sexual practices.

During the last few days, Natasha had learnt far more about human sexual behaviour than she had ever thought possible.

Watching people having sex in videos still made her feel uncomfortable, but it did not elicit the same feelings of shock and horror that they had on the first day. Natasha suspected that she had simply been desensitised and perhaps overwhelmed by the sheer amount of sexual knowledge that she was being flooded with.

She resolutely refused to think about Vladimir, despite the fact that in the back of her mind, she knew that the day she would be forced to have sex with him was drawing ever closer.

Madame B flicked off the lights and started up another video, telling the girls that this video would feature a BDSM scene with a dominant woman and a submissive man. She instructed the girls to watch carefully, should they ever need to do a scene like this in the future.

On the screen, a man was tied down to a bed, his arms and legs stretched out to the bedposts, thin purple ropes wrapped carefully around his wrists and ankles, providing little room for movement.

Crouched above him was a naked woman, her jet black hair a stark contrast to her pale skin. In her hand was a flogger, which she was bringing down on the man's chest and thighs in a slow, steady rhythm.

The man was counting every strike of the flogger against his skin, his voice high and strained from the heady mixture of pleasure and pain coursing through him.

"Eighteen..."

_Whack!_

"Oh... Oh God. Nineteen."

_Whack!_

"Twenty!"

The woman put down the flogger, crooning softly as she rubbed a gentle hand over his reddened skin, eliciting a soft moan from the man, before suddenly digging her nails into the tender flesh of his thighs, drawing out a sharp cry.

"I think it's time for the pinwheel, don't you?" she said sweetly, reaching into a small velvet bag behind her and pulling out a metal pinwheel, its short metal spikes looking threatening and sinister.

The man whined, his eyes widening with fear, as she began slowly moving the pinwheel across his body.

The pinwheel was not designed to be painful. It did not draw blood. Its purpose was to elicit fear, its dangerous appearance flooding the body with adrenaline as it kicked the man into fight-or-flight mode. Being tied down, however, meant that the man could neither fight the woman off nor run away, something that the Domme seemed to be enjoying greatly.

The throbbing erection between the man's legs showed that he was just as into the scene as the woman, and it was his penis that the woman turned her attentions to next.

Laying the pinwheel back down on the bed, she grasped the man by the base of the penis and slowly lowered herself down, moaning low in her throat as she slid all the way down, grinding herself down on the man's pubic hair.

Natasha watched, dazed and strangely mentally blank, as she watched the woman riding the man to orgasm.

She could not remember how many pornographic films she had watched in the last few days. It felt like dozens. She had watched every single position imaginable, every combination of genders and numbers of people, every kink, every fantasy.

Every time, she found herself able to emotionally detach herself more and more from what she was watching. So long as she avoided thinking about actually having to  _do_ the things that were portrayed in the videos, she was fine.

By the time Madame B had flicked off the projector and turned the lights back on, Natasha found that her palms were barely sweaty, her nerves almost non-existent.

"Wasn't that educational?" Madame B said brightly.

"Yes, Madame B," the girls replied.

Indeed, it had been. Natasha had carefully catalogued every move, every expression on the faces of both participants. She was still utterly lost about why anyone would  _want_ to engage in sexual activities, but she was intelligent enough to appreciate the importance of learning about them.

"I'm pleased to announce that we've set a date for the culmination of this week's education," said Madame B, smiling.

Natasha's fingers gripped the edge of her desk involuntarily as terror, fresh and tight and unexpected, surged through her body.

"You will have sex with Vladimir in two days’ time," said Madame B. "He will report back to me to inform me of whether or not you successfully completed the task. Excuses will not be accepted. Failure will not be tolerated. Class dismissed."

Natasha stood, barely managing to tuck her chair underneath her desk, before she suddenly bent over and vomited all over the floor.

She stared in shock at the pool of vomit at her feet. The stunned silence from Madame B and the rest of the class showed that they were just as surprised as Natasha by her reaction.

"Must have been something I ate," she mumbled nervously. "I'll get a mop to clean up."

She turned away and ran out of the classroom as fast as she could.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Natasha woke with a start at exactly 6:59am.

Her heart was hammering inside her chest, her palms slick with sweat as her throat worked nervously to swallow down a lump that did not seem to have any intention of moving any time soon.

Natasha curled into a tight ball, rolling onto her side and huddling as far under her duvet as she could.

She was hiding; not from Madame B – she knew that would never work – but from the Red Room Academy and the world in general. She wanted to hide away for just one more minute, one more second, any merciful sliver of time that would allow her to simply lie in her bed in peace and pretend that today was not happening.

Today was Sex Day.

At exactly 7:00am, Madame B opened the dormitory door, striding in to open the curtains and uncuff the girls from their beds.

Natasha lay rigidly under her duvet, taken by the sudden, childish urge to stay in bed for as long as possible, to delay the inevitable for as long as was humanly possible.

'As long as was humanly possible' turned out to be about 30 seconds, which was how long it took for Madame B to uncuff the other girls and finally get around to uncuffing Natasha, pulling back her duvet harshly, making her blink in the bright sunlight.

Natasha stared blankly as Madame B unlocked her handcuffs, rotating her wrist out of habit to stretch out the kinks that had formed overnight.

She watched hollowly as Madame B swept out of the room with a swish of her dress, slowly climbing out of bed to pull on her school uniform. She pulled on her underwear and tights with no bother. It was only when she got around to buttoning up her blouse that she noticed just how badly her hands were shaking; they were trembling terribly, struggling to simply hold the fabric of her blouse, let alone coax the buttons through their holes.

She swallowed, her throat feeling like sandpaper, before taking a few deep breaths, trying to steady her nerves. She could do this. It was only sex. She had done much worse with no difficulty at all.

Except, for some reason, this felt worse.

Finally, she managed to button up her blouse and pull on her dress, smoothing down the fabric automatically to make herself look as tidy and presentable as possible.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she noticed that she was abnormally pale, her skin looking clammy and white, a slight sheen of sweat covering her forehead and upper lip. Wiping the sweat away with the back of her sleeve, she glanced around at her classmates. They also seemed quieter and more subdued than normal, but none of them seemed as terrified as she was. Perhaps they were just better at hiding their fear. She could not conceal her own feelings from herself, after all.

She briefly made eye contact with Tatiana. The other girl gave her a blank, unreadable expression, her mouth twitching momentarily before smoothing out and becoming a straight line once more. Natasha desperately wondered what was going on inside her head. Tatiana always seemed so calm and put together. Was she really that calm, or were her emotions swirling violently and unbidden, like Natasha's, just underneath the surface?

Natasha tore her gaze from Tatiana's face, looking at the clock.

7:15am – it was time to go down to the dining hall for breakfast.

Natasha watched, in a daze, as her traitorous feet carried her out of the dormitory and down the familiar corridors towards the dining hall.

There were ten different corridors that they had to traverse to reach the hall. It usually took around two minutes to walk there. Natasha had never noticed before just how long that was, but this time, she could feel every single one of those 120 seconds. It simultaneously felt as if it had taken an absolute age and as if it were over all too soon.

She took her seat at the table, pulling a bowl of porridge towards her and picking up the spoon out of pure habit. She was not hungry. The thought of eating made her feel sick, but she knew that today, of all days, she would need her energy.

Forcing the spoon past her lips, she reluctantly chewed on the porridge. It tasted like cardboard. She chewed and chewed but the amount in her mouth did not seem to shrink. Was porridge always this difficult to eat? After managing to swallow a single mouthful, she could not face another bite, putting her spoon down slowly and simply staring at the bowl instead, as if it might provide her with a way out of her nightmarish situation.

"You should eat," Tatiana said suddenly.

Natasha flinched, having been so absorbed in her own world that she had not even registered Tatiana staring at her from across the table.

"You'll need the energy," Tatiana continued, shovelling porridge into her own mouth with impressive enthusiasm. Tatiana did not usually eat so quickly. Natasha wondered if perhaps that meant she was nervous too.

She tried to smile at her classmate, but what came out may have been more like a grimace. Picking up her spoon again with a sigh, she forced herself to eat some more, managing to polish off half the bowl before her nerves overwhelmed her again, making it impossible to face another bite.

"It'll be over before you know it," said Tatiana gently, giving her a rare smile. "There's no reason to be scared."

Natasha fiddled with her spoon, not daring to make eye contact with Tatiana.

"I'm not scared," she lied, looking up sharply when Tatiana snorted at her response.

Natasha let out an annoyed huff. It was no use lying to Tatiana. The other girl was too sharp.

"Thanks," she said eventually, looking up and giving Tatiana a tentative smile.

The two girls were not friends, but they did have a strong feeling of respect for one another. They both appreciated how talented the other was. Tatiana had made an effort to be nice to Natasha, ever since the hospital fire. In return, Natasha had afforded Tatiana the same courtesy, being nice to her in a way she was not with any of her other classmates.

It was at that moment that Madame B stood up, tapping her glass to attract the attention of her class.

The ten girls all dropped their spoons immediately, turning in their seats to give Madame B their full attention.

"There has been a slight change of plan," said Madame B. "You will not be having sex with Vladimir."

Natasha's stomach flipped, her spirits soaring momentarily as huge waves of relief and joy coursed through her.

Oh, thank goodness! She would be spared the ordeal of sex. She would not have to seduce  _Vladimir_ , the man who had found her at the age of three and brought her to this godforsaken place all those years ago. It was a miracle. She was so happy, so thankful, so relieved.

"No, instead, you will be having sex with one of Russia's greatest ever assassins," Madame B continued smoothly. "He has just completed a mission nearby and his handlers have sent him here, to blow off some steam before going back to his... ah...  _base_ , in Siberia."

There was something distinctly strange about the way Madame B said the word 'base', but Natasha did not dwell on it, her heart simply too heavy with despair as the relief she had been feeling mere seconds before evaporated into nothingness.

"This is a great privilege, girls," said Madame B, her lips stretched out into a wide grin. "Let me tell you, he is very easy on the eye."

Natasha noticed the way Madame B leered as she mentioned the assassin's attractiveness. She was barely able to hide the disgust from her face. Madame B had no shame.

"Who is he?" asked Tatiana, her voice wavering very slightly.

Natasha flicked her eyes from her teacher to her classmate. She was glad that Tatiana seemed determined to ignore Madame B's lewd suggestions, getting straight to the point instead, as if it were any other mission.

"His name is the Winter Soldier," said Madame B slowly. "He had more kills under his belt than any other assassin in Russian history."

_The Winter Soldier..._

For some reason, the name alone sent shivers down Natasha's spine.

"I've never heard of him," frowned Tatiana, biting her bottom lip in confusion.

Madame B smiled, her teeth seeming to glitter in the morning sunlight. "Exactly," she whispered. "That proves how good he is. He just does the job; gets in, gets out, with no witnesses. One day, you girls will be just as good."

Natasha licked her lips nervously.

"Now stand up and get in line," said Madame B, her tone suddenly terse and business-like. "Follow me."

Natasha stood up, hanging back until she was at the end of the line and following her classmates as they trailed behind Madame B in a long line. She dragged her feet as much as she dared, knowing that she would never get away but wanting with every cell in her body to hang back, to turn back and run, to escape.

With a fresh flood of dread, she realised that they were heading towards Madame B's private quarters. She had never set foot in this part of the school before. It was where the staff lived and was out of bounds to all students, under normal circumstances.

Natasha clenched her fists and realised that they were slick with sweat, wiping them on her dress as they finally slowed to a halt outside a door at the very end of the corridor.

The door was thick and heavy-looking. It looked like the kind of door out of which not much sound, if any, would escape. Natasha was not sure if she was grateful or even more terrified by this fact.

On the floor, just outside the door, was a pile of white bed sheets. Madame B picked up one of the bed sheets and turned to face the girls.

"This is my personal bedroom," she said. "Wait here. Do not try to run."

Her last sentence was suffused with threat, her tone heavy and ominous. Natasha knew that if any of them tried to run, they would be killed.

She stood stock still, her feet seemingly glued to the ground, as she watched Madame B walk into the bedroom, the bed sheet clutched in her hands. Natasha strained her ears, trying to work out what was going on. Was the Winter Soldier already in there or was he yet to arrive? Would they see him before they entered the room, or would the first they saw of him be inside Madame B's bedroom, as he prepared to rape them?

Natasha could make out the sounds of the bed sheets rustling. Madame B seemed to be making the bed using the fresh sheets. It made sense, she supposed. Madame B clearly did not want the girls to mess up her own personal bed sheets.

Madame B emerged from the room less than a minute later, her eyes shining in a sinister, almost manic, way.

"You may go in," she said, looking at the girl at the front of the queue. "He is waiting for you."

Natasha watched in horror as her classmate slowly edged towards the door, her fingers trembling as she reached out to touch the doorknob. There was no movement from the other side of the door. The Winter Soldier was clearly willing to wait. Pulling in a shuddering breath that broke into a sob half-way through, the girl pushed open the door and stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind her a second later, before Natasha got a chance to catch a glimpse of anything inside the room.

The wait outside was an agonising one. Very little sound escaped from the room. Occasionally, Natasha thought she could hear crying, but she could not be sure if the sound came from within Madame B's bedroom or from some other part of the school. It could have been the sound of the wind whistling around a loose window frame.

After what felt like an age, the girl emerged from the bedroom. Her hair was messy, her face covered in sweat and tears as she walked towards Madame B on wobbly legs, clutching the bed sheet to her chest.

Madame B took the bed sheet from her wordlessly, her lips curving into a smile as she found a small patch of bright red blood, right in the middle of the sheet.

"Did she complete the task?" she called into the room.

Natasha jumped as a low male voice replied from within the room.

"She did," replied the Winter Soldier.

His voice was deep and husky, his intonation slightly flat.

Natasha could feel her knees shaking and had to place a discreet hand against the wall to stop herself from swaying. Hearing the voice of the man who she would be forced to have sex with suddenly made the whole ordeal feel a lot more  _real_. Adrenaline surged through her veins as her body screamed at her to run, to escape the danger that lay behind Madame B's bedroom door.

"Very good. Well done," said Madame B, smiling down at the girl, who looked as though she was about to be sick. "You may go back to your dormitory now. There will be no other lessons today."

The girl scuttled off immediately, not making eye contact with any of her classmates as she rushed past. Natasha watched her go, the knot in her stomach tightening sickeningly as the line moved forward a step. She found herself immensely grateful that she was at the back of the queue.

Madame B picked up a fresh bed sheet and disappeared into her bedroom once more, appearing a minute later, having re-made the bed.

"Your turn," she said, smiling at the next girl in the queue.

The girl stepped confidently towards the door with a sense of bravado that Natasha could somehow instinctively tell was fake. Taking a deep breath, the girl opened the door and stepped inside, shutting the door quickly behind her.

Natasha closed her eyes, resting her head against the wall and breathing deeply as she tried to block out the occasional noises that escaped the room.

She was beyond trying to hide her fear now. She did not care if Madame B or her classmates saw how afraid she was. She did not want to have sex. Knowing that she would be forced to do so, and having to  _wait_ outside the bedroom where it would happen, with nothing to distract herself, felt like torture.

The girls did not talk to one another. The atmosphere in the short corridor was tense, heavy and claustrophobic. The girls were all clearly nervous. In her second-to-last position in the queue – just in front of Natasha – Tatiana had gone a deathly shade of white, her complexion and a light tremor in her left hand giving away the fear that was undoubtedly thrumming through her veins.

The second girl emerged from the bedroom, looking shaken but a lot less upset than the first girl. Her bed sheet was clutched in her hand and she handed it to Madame B.

Madame B examined it, nodding with approval when she saw the small bloodstain in the middle of the sheet.

"Did she complete the task?" she called into the bedroom.

"Yes," came the voice from inside.

"Well done," she praised, giving the girl a smile before sending her back to the dormitory.

Taking a fresh bed sheet from the pile, she once again re-made the bed, before sending in the next girl in the queue.

The process repeated, again and again, until finally it was only Tatiana and Natasha left outside Madame B's bedroom door.

Madame B was inside, re-making the bed with a fresh bed sheet in preparation for Tatiana.

"Good luck," mumbled Natasha, wanting to comfort Tatiana but knowing that there was nothing she could say that could adequately take the edge off of what was about to happen.

Tatiana was a decent person. She did not deserve this.

"Thanks," muttered Tatiana, keeping her voice low so that Madame B would not hear them talking. "You too, for when it's your turn."

Natasha nodded, her throat tightening too much to give a verbal reply, which was just as well because Madame B chose that moment to emerge from the room. She had not banned the girls from speaking, per se, but Natasha could sense that she would not be pleased if she knew the girls had exchanged words of comfort.

"Your turn," Madame B said gently, looking almost pityingly at Tatiana.

Tatiana ignored her, striding straight past her and into the bedroom without flinching or slowing her pace. The door banged shut behind her, echoing loudly in the suddenly silent corridor.

Natasha became acutely aware of Madame B's presence, could feel her teacher's eyes on her, and turned away uncomfortably, not wanting her to see the fear that was threatening to tear its way right out of her chest and leave her a screaming, crying heap on the floor.

Her breath came out in tight wheezes, her hands now shaking uncontrollably as she stood slumped against the wall, feeling as though the slightest movement would cause her to faint or vomit.

This was worse than when she had had to spend the night locked in a cupboard with a corpse. This was worse than the time she had tortured Valentina Drakova and cut out her tongue. This was worse than the time she had set fire to St. Anastasia's Maternity Hospital.

She would give anything, everything, to swap places with her past self and re-live those terrible experiences again, if it meant that she would no longer be stood outside Madame B's bedroom, knowing that the Winter Soldier was raping Tatiana, and that  _she would be next_ , the passage of time making the inevitable event draw nearer, nearer, nearer.

The door opened abruptly and Natasha felt as if her heart genuinely stopped as Tatiana stepped out, her face blank as she handed her bloodstained bed sheet to Madame B for her to examine.

Madame B took it without looking at it, her eyes fixed on Tatiana's face as she called into the room.

"Did she complete the task?"

"Yes," said the Winter Soldier.

With a smile, Madame B dismissed Tatiana and picked up the tenth and final bed sheet, hurrying into the bedroom to prepare the bed for Natasha.

Natasha stood, clutching onto the wall to keep herself upright, her mouth agape, as she stared dumbstruck at the door.

She was next.

Terrible dread and blind panic surged within her.

For one mad moment, she considered running away. She could turn on her heel and run. She could make it outside, killing or disabling anyone who got in her way, head over the James' farmhouse and beg him to run away with her. They could start a new life somewhere far away, maybe in England, where his mother had originated. Her English was good enough to get a job. Maybe when she was old enough, she could go to university.

Her train of thought crashed to a halt as Madame B opened the door and looked down at Natasha, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Your turn," she said softly, stepping back to allow Natasha to walk past her and enter the bedroom.

Natasha walked stiffly towards the bedroom door, her blood pressure ramping up with every step.

She could do this. It would be over before she knew it. It was just another task. It was just another mission to complete. She could do this.

Except, she couldn't.

Just before the door, her footsteps faltered, stopping just before the threshold as if she were being physically repelled by what lay inside the room.

Without warning, Madame B gave her a hard shove, causing Natasha to topple into the room, almost falling to the floor. She whirled around in a panic, lurching towards the door before it was slammed unceremoniously in her face. Natasha heard a soft click as Madame B locked it from the other side.

Natasha stared at the door in despair before suddenly becoming aware of breathing from within the room.

Turning slowly on the spot, she held her own breath to locate the source of the noise. The curtains were closed, meaning that the room was plunged into darkness. As her eyes slowly became accustomed to the low light conditions, she gasped and took a step backwards as her eyes finally fell on the Winter Soldier.

He was stood silently in the corner of the room, his stance predatory, like a hunter about to pounce on its prey.

He was naked, his body beautiful, all toned muscles and beautiful features. He had light brown hair and eyes that were so gorgeously blue that, under other circumstances, Natasha would have been inspired to write poetry about them.

What drew her attention the most, however, was his left arm. It was some kind of monstrously advanced prosthesis, all silver-coloured metal except for a red, five-pointed Soviet star on the shoulder.

He had a strong jaw and long, dark eyelashes. His penis was thick and erect, around 7 inches long and leaking pre-cum from the tip. His skin looked as smooth as velvet.

He had the perfect male body, but Natasha did not feel any attraction, only fear.

"Strip," said the Winter Soldier. "Then get on the bed."

With that, he tugged on his penis a couple of times to make sure it was fully erect, and took a condom from a table that Natasha had not even noticed up until that point, rolling it down over himself quickly and efficiently. Natasha could understand why he had more kills than any other assassin in Russian history; he was like a machine.

Natasha slowly pulled her dress and blouse over her head, pulling clumsily at her shoes before sliding off her tights with shaking hands. Straightening up in just her underwear, she looked at the Winter Soldier pleadingly but he simply stood there, clearly waiting for her to strip completely.

Fighting every instinct in her body that wanted to hug her clothes to her until they were melded to her flesh, she pulled off her bra and knickers, shivering violently as she finally stood nude, despite the warm temperature of the room.

She walked towards the bed in a daze, her mind strangely blank and devoid of words, her internal monologue suddenly going mute as pure, wordless, unadultered terror surged through her instead. Her body felt like a work of contrasts. She felt numb and yet she was aware of every single part of her body and her surroundings. She felt dead and yet more terrified than she had ever been before. Her mouth was dry and yet her palms and armpits were suddenly flooded with sweat.

She lay down on the bed, easing herself onto her back, when her legs suddenly clamped together. Her joints felt locked into place. She could not move them. She could barely breathe.

The Winter Soldier loomed over her as he joined her on the bed.

She could feel the bed dip under his weight, feel the heat of his naked body next to hers. Natasha realised her eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness when she looked up at his face and saw that he was close enough to count the freckles on his nose. Shifting her eyes to meet his gaze, a shiver of cold dread rustled through her.

There was no life in his eyes. They were the eyes of a dead man. It was as if there was no soul inside the flesh casing. His eyes made him look barely human. He was not a man. He was simply the Winter Soldier; an efficient killing machine.

Before Natasha could ruminate any more, he leaned forward and kissed her forcefully, his metal hand gripping her hair tightly, preventing her from moving away. She pressed her lips together, desperately trying to get away from his tongue, which was probing, hot and wet and demanding, at her mouth, seeking entrance.

She felt as though she was suffocating. This was it, she was going to die, here and now, deprived of oxygen by the Winter Soldier, who was kissing her hungrily and desperately, as if he were starving and she were his meal.

Just when Natasha thought she was about to pass out, the Winter Soldier pulled away, his eyes raking down her body appreciatively, lingering on the swell of her breasts and the curves of her hips.

"Open your legs," he said, staring at her wispy pubic hair, which was as red and curly as the hair on her head.

As if on autopilot, her body obeyed, her legs suddenly unlocking and springing open, triggering a nervous laugh to bubble up from her throat as she was taken by the sudden urge to talk about something,  _anything_ , to put off the inevitable rape that was now so close she could almost feel it.

"You know, you're probably only the third man I've ever had a conversation with," she ranted nervously, her eyes widening in terror at the way the Winter Soldier almost drooled as he looked between her parted legs. "All the teachers and students here are female. I only know two men. There's Vladimir. He works here, although I'm not really sure what his job title is. He just helps with combat training mainly. And drives the minibus. Sometimes he kidnaps people. He kidnapped me when I was three years old. That's thirteen years ago, how weird is that?!"

The Winter Soldier did not respond, casually stroking his penis with one hand as the other reached up to squeeze her breasts.

Natasha screwed her eyes shut, fighting back the urge to cry as the metal hand started groping her.

She continued rambling, the talking providing her with a distraction.

"The only other man I've talked to is the local pig farmer, James."

The Winter Soldier's hand froze on her breast, causing Natasha's eyes to snap back open in terror at the sudden lack of movement.

"James?" said the Winter Soldier, sounding unsure for the first time since Natasha had entered the room.

Natasha stared at him. The Winter Soldier stared right back, looking frightened. Natasha almost forgot how to breathe.

What was this?

A trick?

A trap?

She was not sure. The only thing she knew for certain was that talking about James seemed to be having some kind of strange effect on the Winter Soldier, distracting him from touching her.

She ploughed on.

"Yes. James," she said quickly. "He has curly white hair and brown eyes. He's a pig farmer. He's kind and gentle and nice. His full name is James... James... Erm... I'm not sure what his full name is, actually, but his name is James, which is a weird name, I know, but it's English, you see? His father was Russian but his mother was English, which is why he has an English name."

The Winter Soldier screwed his eyes shut and shook his head violently.

"Shut up!" he shouted, his voice sounding desperate, almost fearful. "Who is James?"

Natasha swallowed nervously.

"He's the local pig farmer," she began, but he cut her off, slamming his fist into the bed, inches away from her thigh.

"No!" he snarled.

Natasha shrank away, afraid, as the Winter Soldier started ranting to himself.

"James is someone else," he muttered darkly, before letting out a high pitched whine, as if he was in pain. "The name means something, I know it. James... Who is he? I don't remember, I don't  _remember_!"

Throwing himself forward so that his face was buried in Madame B's bed, it took Natasha a moment to realise that the man's shoulders were shaking because he was  _sobbing_.

"Did you know someone called James?" she asked tentatively, reaching out to touch his back but drawing her hand away at the last second.

At the sound of the word 'James', the Winter Soldier again let out a pained moan, looking up at her with such obvious pain in his previously dead eyes that Natasha actually gasped out loud.

The man in front of her was nothing like the man who had stood in the corner of the room and ordered her to strip. The difference was frightening in its intensity.

"Was there a James in your life?" she pressed on. "Who was James?"

The Winter Soldier let out an anguished cry as tears streamed down his face anew, his whole body trembling, his penis flaccid between his thighs as he shook his head, closing his eyes as he choked out small, broken sobs.

"I don't know," he whispered, before starting up a mantra, rocking back and forth. " _James, James, James..._ "

As suddenly as the tears started, they stopped, and for one heart-stopping moment, Natasha feared that the previous, emotionless, dead-eyed Winter Soldier was back.

When he opened his eyes, this time, however, they looked different again. He was no longer dead-eyed, but he was no longer anguished and confused either. Instead, his blue orbs were filled with horror as he slowly backed away from her, almost falling over as he moved off the bed and retreated until his back hit the wall.

"What's happening?" he asked.

His tone was hushed, but most bizarrely of all, he was speaking in English.

He had a perfect American accent.

Natasha could detect a New York dialect.

"You're supposed to have sex with me," Natasha said slowly, switching to English as well.

"But you don't want to?" asked the Winter Soldier, his eyes slowly taking in the way her legs were once again clamped shut, her entire body tensed up with obvious terror.

Natasha shook her head. "Please, no," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears against her will. It was the first time in a long time that she could remember begging.

The Winter Soldier reached out to the table that he had picked the condom up from before, this time picking up a knife.

Natasha's blood ran cold as she watched, horrified, as he slowly walked back towards the bed, knife in hand.

"Please don't kill me," she gasped. "You can rape me, it's fine, just don't-"

The Winter Soldier shushed her with a gentle finger against her lips, his blue eyes meeting her green ones calmly.

He lowered the knife and pressed it against his flesh arm, creating a small cut in his forearm. He rubbed his bleeding arm against the condom and then held it above the middle of the bed, allowing the drops of blood to soil the bed sheet.

"Smear some on your legs and thighs, just in case Madame B checks," he instructed quietly.

Natasha hesitated, not moving as he held his arm out patiently for her.

"I'm disease-free," he added.

Natasha tentatively reached out and touched his arm where he was bleeding, smearing the blood on her fingers and then rubbing them against her thighs and at the entrance to her vagina.

The Winter Soldier sighed softly, before bringing the cut to his lips and sucking lightly to get rid of the blood. Natasha could see that the wound was already starting to heal.

"I'm so sorry for before," he said, his voice breaking as he turned away, unable to look Natasha in the face.

Natasha stared at him, dumbfounded. It was as if he were two different people, the cold, machine-like Winter Soldier, and whoever this man was – this kind, vulnerable, confused man. And all because she had said the name James.

"It's OK," she stammered, not knowing what else to say.

"Get dressed," he said, before turning away to face the corner, his right arm moving rapidly.

Natasha pulled on her clothes with numb fingers, hardly daring to believe it. She had got through it without being raped. By some miracle, she had got to avoid having sex. She almost cried with relief.

Fully dressed, she stood uncertainly in the middle of the room just as the Winter Soldier let out a quiet grunt, his back muscles twitching as his hand suddenly stopped moving.

She heard the sound of him pulling off the condom, the outside covered in blood from his arm, the inside now filled with semen.

Natasha stared at the condom, her mind going into overdrive, a strange feeling of horror tugging at her mind.

"Why did you do that?" she asked.

The Winter Soldier stared at her before lowering his gaze, looking simultaneously sad, angry and resigned.

"You're not the only one who needs to prove they completed the task," he said bitterly, before dumping the condom on the table and striding over to the bed to rip off the bed sheet. He flung it at Natasha, who caught it just in time.

Natasha stared at him. What did he mean by that? Was he just as trapped as she was?

"Get out of here and show your teacher the bed sheet," he said shortly, returning to his position in the corner of the room.

Natasha continued staring at him, not moving.

"Now!" he snapped, kneading his knuckles against his forehead.

Natasha turned on her heel and fled the room, which had been unlocked at some point during the proceedings, running straight into Madame B who was stood waiting outside.

Hands shaking, Natasha held out the bed sheet to Madame B, her heart hammering loudly in her ears.

Madame B took the bed sheet and smiled with approval when she saw the bloodstain in the middle.

"Did she complete the task?" she called.

The reply from inside the room was confident and immediate.

"She did," said the Winter Soldier.

Natasha let out a small breath she had not even realised she had been holding, relief flooding through her system.

"Well done, Natasha," said Madame B. "I knew you wouldn't fail."

Natasha gave her a weak smile.

"You may go back to your dormitory now," said Madame B.

Natasha obeyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SUMMARY: When the girls collectively reach the age of 16, which is the age of consent in Russia, Madame B decrees that the girls must learn the art of seduction, as it is an invaluable weapon to have in their arsenal. She forces the girls to watch pornography and tells them that at the end of the week, they will be forced to have sex. Natasha is horrified by this, as she is asexual and does not want to have sex at all, let alone at the command of Madame B. When 'Sex Day' arrives, Madame B reveals that the person they are to have sex with is the Winter Soldier, a KGB assassin with more kills than anyone else in Russian history. Natasha is locked in Madame B's bedroom with the Winter Soldier. When she is forced to strip and lie on the bed, Natasha begins talking in an attempt to distract herself from what is happening. She starts talking about her friend James, the pig farmer. Hearing the name 'James' seems to trigger some kind of change in the Winter Soldier, who becomes hysterical and immediately gets off the bed when he realises that they are lying naked together. He demands to know what is happening, and Natasha tells him that he was about to rape her. He grabs a knife and cuts his own arm, smearing a condom and the bed sheets with his blood to trick Madame B into believing that the rape took place. The Winter Soldier apologises to Natasha for trying to rape her before, telling her that he does not know who James is but he feels that the name is important. Natasha is mystified by why the name 'James' caused such a change in behaviour in the Winter Soldier. He masturbates and fills the condom with semen, explaining to Natasha that she is not the only one who needs to prove that they 'completed the task'. Natasha wonders if he is just as trapped as she is and leaves the room, handing the bloodied bed sheet to Madame B. Madame B asks the Winter Soldier if Natasha had sex with him. He lies and says that she did. Natasha walks away from the bedroom, having successfully tricked Madame B into believing the rape took place.
> 
> FORESHADOWING: The events of this chapter were foreshadowed twice. I'm guessing most of you picked up on the fairly obvious foreshadowing in Chapter 11, but did anyone notice the foreshadowing in Chapter 4? Well done if you did!
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "Marble". Anyone for ballet?
> 
> AUTHOR NOTE: Thank you for your kudos and kind comments - they always make me smile! Also, this is about as dark as this fic is going to get, so if you survived Chapter 12, then celebrate, this story will (hopefully) not break you :)


	13. Marble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/155595611846/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)

2001 – Aged 17

 

* * *

 

By the time another year had rolled by, Natasha's class had shrunk to just 8 students.

One day, Madame B led the girls down to the dining hall for breakfast and told them to eat well, saying that they would need the energy for what she had planned for the rest of the day.

Natasha obediently ate her breakfast, shooting a confused glance to Tatiana, who has sat opposite her. Although she would never admit it, she was a little nervous about what the day would bring. When Madame B told them to eat well, it generally meant that they had a very intense day of physical training ahead of them.

She washed down her porridge with a large glass of water, casting a careful eye over Madame B, trying to decipher any clues as to what she had planned for them.

Madame B caught her eye and gave her a small smile, which Natasha mirrored on instinct. She did not mean it.

When the last girl had finished her breakfast, Madame B rose to her feet without a word and gestured for them to follow her out of the dining hall. She led the girls towards one of the training rooms, closing the door behind them once they had entered the room.

Natasha looked around the room, immediately noticing four things which stood out as unusual.

First of all, the room did not have gym mats on the floor. For a moment, Natasha wondered if they would be forced to spar to the death against one another, before dismissing the idea; it went against Madame B's usual modus operandi. It would also be wasteful to whittle down the class in such a casual way, when the school had poured so much into their education.

The second thing that was strange was that Vladimir was in the room. This seemed to confirm Natasha's earlier suspicion that they were to receive some kind of combat training. Vladimir only really turned up to help with combat training or to drive the minibus, and he was hardly going to be driving inside the Red Room Academy.

Thirdly, there was an old gramophone sitting on a table. This confused Natasha greatly. The Red Room Academy did not usually bother itself with such trivial, irrelevant pursuits as music.

Fourthly, and most bizarrely of all, in the corner of the room was a pile of ballet shoes and blue tutus.

Natasha suddenly had a vivid recollection of the time that she and Elena had been up the beech tree during that beautiful summer of 1994. Elena had said that she had seen some of the older girls having a ballet class. They had thought it slightly strange at the time, but had then swiftly forgotten about it.

Madame B cleared her throat, quietly demanding the girls' attention.

"If you get captured whilst on a mission, you may get tortured," said Madame B, getting straight to the point. "The key to not giving in to torture is mental strength. That is the purpose of today's lesson: to train you to have mental strength."

Natasha shivered.

The Red Room Academy's usual approach was to flood the students, whether that was through intense training of a particular skill, or by overwhelming them with a particular stimulus so that they became desensitised to it.

With this in mind, Natasha had a horrible suspicion about how they would be taught mental strength; that it would likely be through the medium of torture. What this had to do with ballet, however, she had no idea.

Madame B addressed Natasha's unspoken musings in her very next sentence.

"You will realise your inner reserves of mental strength by performing a ballet routine," said Madame B, smiling sweetly in a way that never boded well.

Natasha frowned with confusion.

"Ballet?" she asked curiously. "How can ballet teach us mental strength?"

Madame B's smile stretched into a grin.

"You will do the same routine, over and over again, until Vladimir decides that you've had enough," she said, her blue eyes glinting with pleasure as she turned to Vladimir, who was stood leaning against the wall. "How long did you make last year's girls dance for?"

Vladimir laughed softly, baring his yellowing teeth as his grey hair fell into his eyes.

"24 hours," he said, smirking when he saw the look of horror on the girls' faces that his simple statement triggered.

Madame B hummed in approval, nodding thoughtfully.

"I think the same again for these girls should be sufficient, don't you?" she asked. "24 hours of continuous dancing, with one toilet and water break in the middle?"

The question was a rhetorical one – Madame B had clearly already made up her mind about how long they were to dance for – but Vladimir nodded in reply all the same, the two of them clearly enjoying ramping up the anxiety amongst the girls.

"Get changed," instructed Madame B, pointing to the ballet shoes and the dark blue tutus lying on the floor in the corner of the room. "Then we will begin."

Natasha slowly walked to the corner of the room, snagging herself a pair of ballet shoes and a tutu before moving a short distance away to get changed.

She stripped slowly, not truly comprehending what lay ahead.

What Madame B was asking them to do was insane. Dancing continuously for 24 hours sounded not only pointless, but also damn near impossible. Such a prolonged period of movement would leave their muscles stiff and swollen, aching to the extreme with lactic acid build up. It would be almost impossible to move after such a long period of time. It would be immeasurably painful. Surely it was an impossible task?

Suddenly, it did not seem so strange after all. Madame B was a big fan of getting the girls to do 'impossibly' difficult tasks.

It was a vital part of their education.

Natasha pulled on her ballet shoes. They were a perfect fit.

Gritting her teeth, she tied up her hair in a tight bun. She knew that dancing for such a long period of time would be difficult enough without having her curly locks bouncing around her face and getting in the way.

"Very good," said Madame B, smiling when all the girls finally stood in a line in front of her. "I will demonstrate the sequence. Watch carefully."

Madame B had changed her usual shoes for ballet shoes, but otherwise she was dressed completely normally. Clearly, she did not intend on dancing for 24 hours with the girls. She was their teacher. She had the luxury of choice.

Madame B lifted up onto her tiptoes smoothly, her body a work of graceful lines as she started to move, the rhythm of the dance flowing through her, even though there was no music playing. Madame B moved effortlessly; stepping, lunging and twirling with such skill and finesse that Natasha thought she would not look out of place on stage with the prestigious Bolshoi Ballet troupe.

Despite her best efforts, Natasha felt the corners of her mouth slowly melt a little into a smile as she watched, her body starting to sway to the inaudible rhythm that Madame B was beating out with every measured movement of her body.

Natasha loved ballet.

Years ago, when she was still in primary school, she had found an old book on Soviet culture which contained pictures of ballerinas dancing. For years, it had been her most treasured possession. She had adored it. She was in love with the beautiful fluidity of the ballerinas’ shapes, with the sheer strength of emotion that could be poured into their gorgeous movements.

As she watched Madame B, part of her was transported to that fanciful place in her mind that she usually kept tightly shut around other people; the part that loved ballet and appreciated poetry and beauty.

Madame B's dance was intricate but fairly short, repeating smoothly once it reached the end of the sequence: up on your toes, turn half way, arms up, a step to the side whilst touching your toes to your knee, repeat, twirl around, lunge down, jump back up, arms up, eight tiny steps backwards on tiptoes, touch toes to knees twice more, turn, arms down, stop moving, arms up, spin twice. And then back to the beginning.

After ten repetitions, all eight girls had fully memorised the routine.

Madame B seemed to instinctively tell when the final girl had grasped the routine, smiling as she stopped her demonstration.

Delicately wiping away the slight sheen of sweat that had formed on her forehead, she looked down at her watch, studying it carefully.

"The time is 9:14am," she said. "You will dance for 24 hours. Vladimir and I will take it in turns to supervise you. If we feel that any of you are failing to perform the dance correctly, you will all be forced to start the routine from the beginning. Do you understand, girls?"

Natasha felt her hands clench involuntarily, her body seeming to catch on to the hideousness of the next 24 hours, even if her mind had not truly begun to grasp it.

"Yes, Madame B," the girls replied in unison.

Madame B smiled, her eyes filled with a dark joy that Natasha now knew to label as _sadistic_.

Madame B enjoyed their pain.

"Very good," she said, the smile not wavering for an instant. "You may begin."

Suddenly, slow eerie piano music began pouring from the old gramophone that Natasha had noticed when she had first entered the room.

Natasha went up onto her toes cautiously, unsure of at what point in the music they were meant to join in. It soon became apparent, however, that the music was simple and repetitive, without much of an overarching tune, and so Natasha took the initiative and began performing the dance that Madame B had demonstrated earlier, hearing rather than seeing her classmates fall into step alongside her.

After the first few repetitions of the sequence, Natasha began to smile.

She loved ballet.

She could feel the music flowing through her as she danced to the steady rhythm set by the gramophone; feel every crotchet, every minim, every quaver, every semiquaver, as it undulated along her limbs like poetry.

She moved as if in a dream, the steps coming to her naturally. She allowed her mind to drift as her body relaxed, really getting into the flow of the music.

Occasionally, one of her classmates would make a mistake and Vladimir would shout "Again!", forcing them to go back to the beginning of the sequence, which was irritating, but not massively so.

The first hour swept by quickly, and Natasha thought happily that this was not so bad, that this may actually be a pleasant way to spend the next 23 hours.

She was glad of the slow tempo set by the piano music. If the beat were any faster, then they would tire too quickly. It seemed that Madame B knew exactly the right speed to set the music, to give the girls a fighting chance at actually completing the task.

Natasha wondered how many years Madame B had been running this particular lesson. It must be at least 7 years, seeing as Elena had seen the girls dancing 7 years ago.

After the second hour, the aches and pains that had been steadily building in her legs and shoulders started to become urgent enough to start demanding her attention. She made her first mistake at around the 140 minute mark, flinching when Vladimir's voice snapped at her like a whip.

"Again!"

She dropped her heels to the floor, momentarily feeling the relief in her ankles before hopping back up and starting the routine again.

Up, turn, arms up, step and touch, step and touch, twirl...

Her legs protested at the movement, her body starting to feel heavy and stiff, as if she were one of those porcelain dolls that she and Tatiana had used to lure away Valentina Drakova into the woods, rather than a real, flexible human.

She shook her head.

She could not allow her mind to wander.

Up, turn, arms up...

At around the four hour mark, every step was agony. She could feel her mental and physical strength sapping as her nerves began to fray.

She needed something to take her mind off the pain. She began purposefully allowing her mind to wander.

She remembered Elena, the way her straight brown hair fell across her shoulders and the warmth of her eyes. She remembered those countless times when they had invented little worlds of their own; a spaceship in the wardrobe, an ocean in the playground, an invisible bouncy cloud in the dining hall.

She remembered the time they had tried to invent a secret language just for themselves, taking grammar from English and vocabulary from Russian, French, German, Italian and Japanese.

Je liebe neko; I love cats.

Natasha snorted out loud at the ridiculousness of the sentence, remembering fondly just how much Elena had laughed at the time as well.

"Again!"

Natasha's attention snapped back to the present, lowering her head guiltily for forcing the whole class to break their routine and start from the beginning again. Every time they had to start again, it was becoming more and more frustrating. Natasha supposed it was a part of the torture.

Up, turn, arms up...

Natasha caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall as she turned and felt a spurt of excitement go through her.

They had been dancing for six hours.

The last time she had checked, it was four.

Thinking about Elena was helping her to forget about the pain and keep dancing, allowing time to slip by faster. Encouraged by this finding, she continued to think about better people, better places, better circumstances than the one that she was in currently.

That summer of 1994 had been a blessing. Those few weeks when Madame B had been ill had allowed her to spend time with Elena and James in a way that she had not been permitted to before or since. There had been no timetables, no impending missions or jobs; there had just been long summer days filled with warmth and strawberries, poppies and buttercups, Elena and James. That had been freedom – the big blue sky, as James liked to call it.

Natasha found herself longing more and more for the big blue sky. It was not long until graduation now, little over a year. Freedom was so close that she could almost taste it.

She wondered how she would celebrate it. She would go and visit James for sure, perhaps take him on a trip to Moscow before she was sent on her first mission with the KGB. She would visit him as much as possible, at least once a month if she could. He had showed her so much kindness throughout her life, taking on the role of father even though no one had asked it of him. He was generous with his time and with his words, giving Natasha the love and stimulating conversation that she had needed to grow to be more than your average Red Room Academy student.

It was a shame that he and Elena had never got to meet; Natasha felt sure that the two of them would have got along very well.

"Again!"

This time, it was another girl who had taken the wrong step, and Natasha found herself grinding her teeth in frustration. The repeated pain and intrusion into her thoughts was making her quicker and quicker to anger every time.

Up, turn, arms up...

She remembered that time that she and Elena had spoken for hours sat up that beech tree. Elena had said that the wanted to be a writer. Natasha had said that she wanted to be a ballerina. Natasha wondered what kind of things Elena would be writing now, if she were still alive. Would she prefer poetry, plays or long prose? Would she have enjoyed Alexander Pushkin's poem Confession as much as Natasha did? Natasha adored that poem, almost as much as she adored ballet.

"Again!"

Natasha felt a small whine escape her lips against her will.

It hurt.

Every time they were forced to break the routine and start again, it hurt.

It was not just the physical pain – although of course that was there, the agonising sting of lactic acid that forced itself to the forefront of her mind every time they were forced to stop – no, it was more than just the physical pain.

It hurt mentally. To have to stop and start, stop and start, grated against her mind like nails on a blackboard. It was unbearable. To be torn from her special place in her mind, away from her memories of Elena, was a very  _deep_ form of torture. The torture was slowly but surely getting under her skin, trying to taint her memories of Elena with this desperate, mad darkness.

Natasha took a deep breath as she went back up onto her toes to begin the routine again. She could not allow that to happen. She could not allow this torture to forever ruin her memories of Elena. Besides, thinking so hard about her fallen friend was taking a heavy toll on her. It was mentally exhausting, and the mental toll was starting to have a physical effect; she could feel herself tiring faster.

Thinking of Elena was like a drug; sure, it numbed the pain, made it more bearable, but in the long run it was doing more harm than good, making her clumsy, tired and more prone to mistakes. Of the last eight times Vladimir had forced them to start again due to a mistake, four had been her fault. She had to stop thinking of Elena and find a new strategy to get through the excruciating pain.

"Stop."

The command was so unexpected that it actually took a few seconds for it to really sink in and for Natasha to finally allow herself to stop dancing. Her eyes fell to Vladimir, who was grinning as he walked over to the gramophone and stopped it playing. The room was suddenly silent, filled only by the gasps and moans of the eight girls.

"You may use the toilet and have some water," said Madame B. "You will begin again in 15 minutes."

Natasha flinched. She had not heard Madame B re-enter the room.

Raising a shaking hand to wipe the sweat from her brow, she looked at the clock, gasping with shock when she saw that they were exactly at the 12 hour mark.

Joy and horror rose in her chest simultaneously; joy that she was halfway through this torture, but horror that there was still another  _12 hours_  of it left to go.

Shuffling over to where large glasses of water had appeared on a table at the side of the room, she drank her fill, closing her eyes with relief as the water washed down her parched throat. She drank the entire glass and was about to reach for a second one when she hesitated. She needed to stay hydrated, yes, but she did not want to feel sick and bloated for the remainder of the dance. She could already feel the water sloshing around uncomfortably in her empty stomach.

Forgoing the second glass of water, Natasha limped away to the nearest toilets, gritting her teeth against the fresh waves of agony that seared through her legs as she hobbled, stiff and ungainly, into the first cubicle.

As she relieved herself, she allowed her head to hang down between her knees, reaching out gingerly to touch her toes. She let out a cry as pain shot through her like a knife. Her toes felt as though they were on fire, hot and raw to the touch. Without taking her shoes off to look, Natasha instinctively knew that they were bruised and bleeding.

She let out several dry sobs, feeling too tired and broken to cry real, wet tears. She could hear similar sounds of pain coming from the other cubicles, but Natasha could not bring herself to care. Their pain meant nothing to Natasha right now. She only had room in her mind for her own pain.

Wiping herself and flushing the toilet, Natasha staggered out and washed her hands before walking stiffly back to the ballet room in a daze. Some of the girls were lying on the floor, crying hysterically.

Natasha drifted over to Madame B, her eyes never leaving the crying girls, transfixed by their agony.

"You'll break them," said Natasha, her lips feeling numb, perhaps from lack of use or the fact her body had more pressing concerns right now, like the agony stabbing through her legs.

"Only the breakable ones," said Madame B. "You are made of marble."

Natasha turned to see Madame B looking at her with an odd expression, a mixture of pride and fondness, much like a mother would look at her child. Natasha almost punched Madame B, holding back only at the last moment, attempting to cover the sudden movement of her hand by bringing it up to redo her hair.

Madame B had no right to look at her like that. Madame B was the furthest thing away from maternal or loving. She was evil.

Madame B smirked, as if she knew exactly what had happened, as if she  _knew_ how much Natasha had wanted to attack her just then.

They fell silent, Natasha breathing hard and simply counting down the minutes on the clock before they would be forced to resume their torture.

Vladimir had left the room. Presumably, his shift was over and Madame B would be observing the final 12 hours.

Natasha wondered what would happen if any of them failed to keep dancing for the full 24 hours. Would Madame B simply kill them or would she force any girls who failed to simply keep doing the exercise until they did the mandatory 24 hours?

Natasha did not intend to find out. She would complete the task, as ordered; she always did.

"Girls," said Madame B, her voice snapping Natasha out of her reverie. "Your 15 minute break is over."

Natasha watched numbly as Madame B walked over to the gramophone and that eerie piano music began playing once more.

Up, turn, arms up...

She loved ballet.

This time, Natasha changed tactics. She knew that thinking about Elena would simply mentally fatigue her, so instead she stopped thinking about anything at all. In her mind's eye, she saw one of those old music boxes with a rotating ballerina on top. Madame B's earlier words floated back to her and Natasha imagined the ballerina on the music box to be made of marble.

Natasha performed the steps mechanically. She stopped thinking, she stopped  _being_ ; she became the ballerina on top of the music box. She became marble.

The first girl collapsed at the 15 hour mark.

Madame B waited a few seconds for her to get up, but when it became clear that the girl was out cold, she simply stepped forward and dragged the girl's unconscious body to the side of the room so that she would not get trampled by her classmates.

Natasha kept dancing.

She did not feel, she did not think, she was simply the marble ballerina, spinning atop a children's music box. It was so easy to withstand the pain when she did not think. She existed in body but not in mind. She was not there inside her own head. She was not anywhere. She was simply marble.

Natasha was only vaguely aware when several nurses entered the room. They bent over the unconscious girl, moving her to a more comfortable position and slipping an IV line into her arm.

Natasha kept dancing.

She loved ballet.

The second girl collapsed at the 17 hour mark, quickly followed by the third and then the fourth.

Natasha did not falter in her routine.

Up, turn, arms up...

The piano music was pouring from the gramophone, filling the room with its strange, steady music. Deep in the recesses of Natasha's mind, she barely noticed it. In her mind, it was coming from the music box that she was dancing on the top of; girl and piano perfectly in sync.

The fifth girl collapsed at the 20 hour mark and, this time, Madame B looked impressed as she dragged the girl's body to the side.

The sixth girl began screaming at around the 21 hour mark. Her demented cries reached Natasha as if she were on the other end of a long tunnel, barely audible as she kept dancing mechanically. On the edges of her awareness, she watched in her peripheral vision as the girl lunged, screaming, at Madame B. She watched as Madame B calmly pulled a knife from her pocket and slit the girl's throat, but she did not think. She could not think. She was not there. She was marble.

Natasha had stopped looking at the clock a long while ago, so it came as a surprise when Madame B stepped in front of her and gently forced her to stop her motions.

Natasha blinked slowly as a glass of water was pushed against her lips and she was coaxed to drink.

It took her several minutes to realise that the music from the gramophone had stopped.

"Well done, girls," Madame B said softly, and it was only then that Natasha looked around and realised that her and Tatiana were the only girls still standing. The others were all unconscious on the floor receiving medical attention or, in the case of the girl who had lost her mind and tried to attack Madame B, dead.

"You both managed to dance for 24 hours," Madame B continued. The look on her face was one of pride. "If you ever get tortured, all you have to do is take yourselves back to the state of mind that allowed you to continue dancing. You will be able to withstand the torture. You know how to unlock that mental strength now."

Out of nowhere, she surged forwards and dragged Natasha and Tatiana into a tight hug. They both stood limply in her arms, too in pain to move much beyond breathing and blinking.

"I'm very proud of you both," said Madame B, when she finally pulled back and let go of them. "You are my two best girls. You are almost ready to be released into the world and serve the purpose you were destined to fulfil."

Madame B smiled and there was an almost tender look in her eyes.

Natasha returned the smile, using her last vestiges of strength to make it look convincing. She could not allow Madame B to see the revulsion that secretly boiled up inside her at the sight of her smile, not when Natasha was so close to achieving freedom.

Madame B dismissed the girls, telling them that there would be no more lessons for the rest of the week, to allow their minds and bodies to recuperate.

As Natasha and Tatiana reached the doorway, Madame B called after them one last time, almost as an afterthought.

"Girls! You must practice holding your breath. I want you to be able to hold your breath for 2 minutes. That's 120 seconds. Do you understand, girls?"

Natasha and Tatiana nodded, both too exhausted and in pain to give much thought as to why Madame B was making such a strange and specific request.

They both made a mental note of it, though. When Madame B instructed them to do something, it was always for a reason.

The girls slowly made their way back to the dormitory. They did not speak; they were both still trapped in the numb, dreamlike state of mind that had allowed them to remain the sole winners of Madame B's 24-hour torture competition.

As Natasha crashed onto her bed, too tired to even strip off her clothes, one final thought drifted across her mind before she finally tumbled down into unconsciousness.

She hated ballet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely comments and kudos, I love hearing from my readers :)
> 
> Teaser: The next chapter will be titled "Graduation", which should be a rather big clue as to what the chapter will be about! So, what do you think the Red Room Academy's final year exams are like? Avengers: Age Of Ultron fans may already have a clue...


	14. Graduation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/155898140686/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)

2002 – Aged 18

 

* * *

 

It was the day of Natasha's final year examinations.

She woke up early.

She lay in bed for a long while, listening to the slow, quiet breathing of her classmates and watching the sun's rays stream in through the dormitory windows.

She watched a blackbird land on the window ledge outside, hopping about and pecking at the glass, its bright eyes alert and curious. Natasha watched the blackbird and yearned to take its place. She would give anything to be able to spread her wings and fly high above the hills and away from the Red Room Academy.

Her nerves felt shredded. Today, she and her classmates would be put through a series of unknown tests. Madame B had not revealed the exact details of their final examinations, other than the fact that they would be assessed individually, rather than in a group, and that the examination would be made up of multiple parts.

Natasha was not naive. She did not expect their final year examinations to be a series of written tests, as was the case in normal schools. No, this was the Red Room Academy, which meant that they would probably be made to perform the types of tasks that would be required of them as KGB agents: murder, perhaps lock picking, maybe mental tests.

Natasha fiddled with the hem of her nightgown. She was not sure why she was so nervous. Madame B had told her on multiple occasions that she was one of the best students that the Red Room Academy had ever produced. She could kill, torture and manipulate without breaking a sweat. She knew, intellectually, that the final year examinations should be no problem for her.

Perhaps it was the fact that freedom was so close that was making Natasha so jittery. Freedom was within her grasp. If she passed the examinations, then she would leave the Red Room Academy the very next day. Forever.

If all went well, freedom would be hers within the next 24 hours.

The stakes were high. She could not fail now. The thought of failure when she was  _so close_  to achieving freedom sent a shiver of anxiety shooting down her spine.

Natasha swallowed hard and forced herself to concentrate on quashing her nerves.

She  _would_ pass the final examinations.

She  _would_ achieve freedom.

Clenching her fists in determination, Natasha glared at the blackbird on the window ledge, making a silent vow.

In 24 hours, she would walk out of the Red Room Academy a free woman. Whatever the cost.

 

* * *

 

The first test was not what Natasha expected at all.

She was sat in a large, airy classroom with Madame B, facing her teacher across the desk.

"The first test is just a question," smiled Madame B. "There is no right or wrong answer, but the answer that you give me must be an honest one. You can take as much time as you need, there is no rush. Do you understand, Natasha?"

Natasha wiped her sweaty palms on her dress, trying to swallow past the ball of nerves in her throat.

A question. In Natasha's experience, there were always right and wrong answers. The fact that Madame B was saying that this question did not have a fixed answer unsettled her. How was she supposed to know if she had successfully passed the test if there was no correct answer?

She could feel sweat beading on her forehead as she nodded jerkily.

"Yes, Madame B," she said.

Madame B smiled, the expression clearly intended to calm her down but somehow having the opposite effect.

Natasha heart rate kicked up a notch.

"Good," said Madame B. "Here is the question. Choose one word that describes you completely."

The first thing Natasha thought was  _that's not a question, that's an imperative sentence_.

The second thing that she thought was  _oh shit_.

Self-reflection. She should have been expecting it really.

Madame B could not read her mind, so she was getting Natasha to do it for her. Usually, Natasha could hide behind a veil of words, spinning out long sentences that sounded convincing but actually revealed very little about her inner state of mind. Forcing Natasha to choose just _one_ word took away this protective shield. The single word would be subjected to the entirety of Madame B's impressive reserves of concentration and scrutiny.

Natasha knew that Madame B would be able to tell if she was lying. She knew her too well. She had raised her, had made her attend weekly one-to-one mentoring sessions for perhaps this very purpose. Natasha could not lie. And yet Natasha knew that she harboured many traits and values that Madame B would not accept in a Red Room Academy graduate: love, friendship and creativity.

She knew the kind of attributes that Madame B would want her to reply with: ruthlessness, efficiency, emotionlessness.

But Natasha was not ruthless, nor solely focused on efficiency, nor emotionless. Her interactions with James, and her past interactions with Elena, proved that. With James, she was kind, emotional and focused on enjoying his presence, not on completing some task with cold-hearted efficiency. She could not claim that ruthlessness, efficiency or emotionlessness described her  _completely_ , because it simply was not true, and Madame B would see through the lie.

She schooled her features, trying not to let her spiralling panic show on her face. There had to be some attribute that completely described her and that Madame B would find acceptable in a Red Room Academy graduate.

She stared out of the window, wishing that the blackbird from earlier in the morning would appear and give her some companionship.

She took a deep, steadying breath, forcing herself to calm down as she reminded herself that Madame B had explicitly told her that there was no time limit. She had as much time as she needed to answer the question.

She closed her eyes to block out Madame B, turning her attention inwards to probe into the depths of her own soul.

What was she like? She was a killer. She was a liar. She could shoot straighter than anyone else in the class. She had tortured little Valentina Drakova to death. She hated ballet. She loved poetry. She loved James and she had loved Elena. She had precious memories of warm summer days and wild flowers and strawberries. She yearned for freedom.

_Intelligent._

Natasha hummed thoughtfully. She was intelligent; there was no doubt about that. It would be an acceptable answer, but Natasha kept digging deeper, having a nagging feeling that there was an even better adjective floating just out of her reach.

She concentrated hard, trying to make a mental list of the things that were most important to her. James. James was important to her. James was so important to her that she had willingly defied the Red Room Academy's 'no friendship' rule for years behind Madame B's back. That was a core part of who she was.

_Deceitful._

'Deceitful' certainly described her well, but she was not sure how much Madame B would approve of this answer. For all that the job of KGB agent would require her to lie, they needed to know that she would not lie to  _them_. Perhaps 'deceitful' was not the best answer she could give.

She concentrated on the memories of sneaking around the village until she was sure that no one was following her, slipping to James' farmhouse and loving every second of their secret, stolen seconds together. She did not fear Madame B's wrath, having been so careful to avoid being seen.

_Fearless._

Natasha opened her eyes with a smile. That was it; that was what she was,  _who_ she was, at the very basic level of her soul. When she wanted something, she pursued it relentlessly, fearlessly, to achieve it. When she went on missions, she did so with a razor sharp mind untouched by fear. When she went to visit James, she did so with the deep feeling that it was  _right_ , and that nothing, not even Madame B, could scare her away from it.

"Have you thought of a word?" prompted Madame B.

Natasha nodded, looking Madame B right in the eyes. She thought about how she had defied the Red Room Academy by secretly continuing her friendship with James. It felt good. It was almost funny, how easy it had been to trick them. She almost laughed. In the end, she settled for smiling.

"Fearless."

 

* * *

 

For the second test, Natasha was strapped down tightly to a table.

Natasha watched as Madame B wrapped leather straps around her ankles, thighs, wrists, shoulders and waist, attaching her securely to the table. The feeling of being trapped down made her uncomfortable. She wondered what this test would be. Perhaps she would be asked to escape the bonds.

She tried to move. She could not.

Madame B smiled as she watched Natasha's vain attempts to escape, seemingly pleased when she saw that Natasha could barely move a single centimetre. Natasha suppressed the shiver that ran down her spine.

"This is a test of mental strength," said Madame B. "You are not allowed to try to escape. You are not allowed to beg for mercy or ask for it to stop. You must endure it. I promise you that you will not come to any physical harm, so long as you keep still."

Natasha licked her lips nervously as Madame B withdrew two pairs of safety goggles from a bag that had been lying on the floor, slipping on her own pair before sliding a hand under Natasha's head to raise her up just enough to secure the goggles on Natasha's face as well.

Natasha blinked, looking up at Madame B through the goggles. The goggles fit snugly against her face, protecting her eyes, although the toughened plastic was dusty and slightly scratched, as if the goggles were old but not used very often.

She wondered nervously what would require her to have eye protection.

Madame B withdrew her hand from Natasha's head, before turning around and leaving the room. Natasha strained her ears, listening intently for clues as to what was going to happen next. She did not like the feeling of not knowing.

Natasha became aware of a slight squeaking noise, like the sound of a wheel turning. She listened harder, holding her breath so that she would not be distracted by the sound of her own breathing. She could hear a low rattling noise now, as if Madame B was wheeling a large piece of machinery towards the room.

About 10 seconds later, her suspicions were confirmed when Madame B finally returned, pushing a mechanical circular saw in front of her.

Natasha's eyes widened with horror as she stared at the saw, fear suddenly shooting through her body, sending her pulse skyrocketing. She swallowed thickly, desperately tugging at the bonds that were tying her down. They did not budge.

Madame B ignored her panicked movements as she wheeled the saw to the bottom of the table where Natasha was lying, her eyes darting up to meet Natasha's briefly.

"Remember, you will not come to any harm, so long as you don't move," Madame B repeated. "I will not cut you. Use your mental strength to get through this."

A million questions danced on the tip of Natasha's tongue. What exactly was Madame B going to do? How long was the test going to last? Was Natasha allowed to say anything at all? Her questions all died in her throat, however, when Madame B simply started up the saw and began cutting through the wood of the table that Natasha was lying on, moving the saw slowly but steadily towards Natasha's left foot.

Natasha gagged as she stared down in terror at the saw inching its way towards her foot. The saw was large, about 6 inches in diameter, and sharp. She could see the evil glint of the steel as it tore through the wooden table as if it were candy floss. It could slice right through her foot without any difficulty.

She could feel the table vibrating madly as the saw drew ever closer to her foot, the spinning metal causing both the table and her left leg to judder violently. Sweat was pouring down her forehead and her sides as her heart hammered painfully in her chest. The saw was getting closer and closer; the vibrations getting stronger and stronger.

Natasha could do nothing except watch in horror as Madame B slid the saw closer and closer to her ankle.

It was 10 centimetres away.

Five centimetres.

One...

Natasha was frozen in place, too scared to even scream as Madame B brought it right up to her ankle and left it there for a couple of seconds, the blade spinning just millimetres away from her skin, before smoothly withdrawing it with a smile, seemingly pleased with Natasha's lack of screaming and struggling.

Natasha let out a long, shuddering breath, feeling the tight ball of anxiety inside her loosen momentarily.

She did not have long to relax, however, before Madame B brought the saw rushing back towards her, much faster this time, aiming for her right wrist. It took every ounce of Natasha's self-control not to flinch away from the saw, forcing herself to remember that Madame B had promised that she would come to no physical harm during this exercise.

The saw stopped dead within millimetres of her wrist, and this time, Natasha could not help the small whimper of fear that escaped her lips.

She regretted it the moment the sound left her. She winced internally as she saw Madame B frown at the small noise, somehow audible above the sound of the saw slicing and vibrating through the table. Her teacher's blue eyes darkened incrementally, displeased by Natasha's split second moment of weakness.

Natasha took a deep breath, trying to ground herself. Mental strength. She had to access her inner reserves of mental strength.

Madame B slowly started moving the saw towards her elbow. Natasha's every instinct was to shrink away from the malevolent saw, but she forced herself to remain still.

Ballet.

She remembered ballet.

She remembered the feeling of becoming the small ballerina figurine spinning on the top of a music box. She remembered how it felt to be absent in her own mind, to be unbreakable, to be marble. She forced herself to inhabit that small, claustrophobic corner of her mind where she had retreated to in the final stages of Madame B's 24-hour ballet torture session.

She became marble.

Dimly, she could feel the heat of the saw just millimetres away from her skin, moving up along the side of her arm rather than pulling away this time.

She forced herself to remain detached from what was happening to her. She was not there. She was in that safe space in her head where thoughts stopped and she simply existed. She was marble. Sluggishly, a scream tried to bubble its way up her throat, but this time, it was so much easier to simply swallow it down and remain still and silent.

Madame B smiled, pleased.

She continued moving the saw all around Natasha's body, varying the speed of her approach and the area she was aiming towards, but never cutting her, never harming her physically, just as she had promised.

Natasha's breathing evened out. It was so easy to simply exist in this mindset, floating on the edges of her own awareness as she resolutely thought of nothing. She closed her eyes.

"Keep your eyes open," Madame B said immediately, her tone firm but not unkind. "Turn your head to the side."

Natasha obeyed, turning her head sideways so that she was looking directly across the table now, rather than up at the ceiling.

Madame B brought the saw into her line of vision and slowly started moving it forwards, aiming straight for Natasha's eyes.

Natasha's pupils dilated with fear as she watched the saw slowly making its way towards her. She swallowed, filling herself with the way it had felt when she had been dancing. Her steps had been mechanical. Her mind had been blank.

She forced herself to do the same now. She breathed in and out, each breath mechanical and even. She fought the urge to flinch away or close her eyes, simply staring at the saw and resolutely ignoring the quiet screaming that she could hear in her ears but that she was 99% certain was not actually real.

The saw was inches away from her face, centimetres, millimetres. The table was splintering and vibrating madly, causing the side of her face and her teeth to ache from the vibrations.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Marble marble marble.

Madame B powered off the saw, letting it come to a complete stop before carefully pulling it back, away from Natasha's face.

Natasha closed her eyes and slumped against the cool, mangled table, sweat soaking through her clothes and her chest rising and falling rapidly as she finally allowed herself to relax and feel everything that she had been holding back.

She let out a small sob of relief.

"Well done," said Madame B. "You have passed the second test. Many girls fail it."

Natasha stayed silent, not offering a reply as Madame B moved around her, deftly undoing the bonds that tied her to the table and setting her free.

Madame B offered Natasha a hand as she clambered down from the table, her legs shaking slightly from all the adrenaline that was pumping through her system. Natasha let out a shaky exhale as she finally stepped away from the table, letting the coolness of the floor seep through her shoes and ground her back to reality.

She had passed the second test.

She huffed out a small laugh of relief.

"Take a seat," said Madame B, gesturing towards two wooden chairs that were positioned next to the tall window.

Natasha walked over to the chairs and sat down, letting her body sag slightly as the tension and terror slowly drained out of her body. She had passed the second test. She had come out of it unscathed, not a single mark on her body, just as Madame B had promised.

"You're doing well, Natasha," said Madame B, taking the seat opposite her.

Natasha looked up at her, searching her eyes for anything that would reveal what was going on in her teacher's head. Madame B's blue orbs stared back, as unreadable as always.

"Thank you," Natasha replied, letting her lips curve into a small smile.

"I am confident that you will pass all the tests," continued Madame B. "Are you?"

Madame B was looking at her intently. Natasha tried not to fidget uncomfortably under the penetrating gaze, settling for turning her eyes out of the window for a moment to watch the world outside.

"I am," said Natasha.

It was true. She  _was_  confident that she would pass all the tests that Madame B had prepared for her. She was one of the best students in her class. In fact, Madame B had told her on several occasions that she was one of the best Red Room Academy students  _ever_. She wondered why Madame B was asking her for her opinion of herself. Perhaps it was another part of the test.

"Good," said Madame B, before pausing slightly.

It was a tiny pause, barely longer than a second, but Natasha instantly picked up on it. She was observant. Her heart started to beat a little faster.

"Once you have successfully passed all the tests, you will be sterilised," said Madame B.

_What?_

Natasha froze in shock, her heart beat suddenly pounding in her ears as she sat rigidly in her chair. The silence stretched on and on, filling the room with its suffocating weight, as Madame B's simple declaration settled over Natasha, chilling her to the bone.

Sterilised.

Natasha was dumbfounded. She would never,  _ever_  have imagined that she would be forced to submit to something that was such a gross violation of her own body. After Madame B had ordered Natasha's rape at the age of 16 by the Winter Soldier, she had been sure that the woman would never be able to orchestrate anything so horrifyingly intimate.

She was wrong.

This felt even worse.

"Why?" the question slipped from her numb lips before she could stop it.

Madame B gave her what was clearly supposed to be a sympathetic smile. Natasha could tell she did not mean it; she could see right through Madame B's facade.

"It will help you to focus on your missions," said Madame B. "You will never have a family, which means that you will never be distracted by them, or have them used against you as a method of coercion by your enemies trying to find a weakness. Love is a weakness, remember. A KGB agent cannot afford to have any weaknesses."

Natasha sat silently, trying not to gag as horror slowly built up in her chest, choking her.

"This is why the Red Room Academy chooses orphans as its students, you know," continued Madame B. "Orphans have no family, no distractions. It's part of what makes you such good agents."

Natasha felt tears prickle at her eyes, blinking them away rapidly before Madame B could notice. She was appalled.

She did not particularly want children, she was still as repulsed as ever by the idea of sex, but the prospect of being sterilised made her balk. If she decided not to have children, that would be her choice. Sterilisation removed her ability to choose. It frightened her more than torture or murder or any of the other terrible things she had participated in during her 18 years.

She sat silently for a long while, trying desperately to think of a way to get out of being sterilised whilst still graduating from the Red Room Academy. Perhaps she could kill the medical team. Perhaps she could threaten to kill their families and make them lie to Madame B, make them say that she had been sterilised when in fact she had not. Perhaps she could simply run.

She knew, deep down, that none of these ideas would work – Madame B would likely want to supervise the procedure herself – but she had to do something,  _anything_ , to distract her from the sudden storm of fear, anger and shock that was raging inside of her at that moment.

Madame B eventually broke the long silence, giving Natasha a small smile as she leaned forward to stroke Natasha's cheek gently.

"I'm extremely proud of you," she murmured. "You are one of the best students the Red Room Academy has ever had. We'll celebrate after the graduation ceremony."

Natasha bit down hard on her lip. She knew that by 'graduation ceremony', Madame B actually meant 'sterilisation'. It was horrifying. She simultaneously wanted to run away and curl into a small ball.

"What if I fail?" asked Natasha quietly.

Madame B's smile became wider and a little icier.

"You never fail."

 

* * *

 

For the third test, Madame B led Natasha to a new room.

This room was as sparsely furnished as the previous one, except instead of containing a table and a circular saw, this room simply contained a large bath that was filled to the brim, the warm water steaming slightly.

Natasha's brow furrowed in confusion as they stopped in front of the bath. She looked up at Madame B questioningly.

Madame B smiled.

"You may remember that around a year ago, after you finished your ballet lesson, I told you to practice holding your breath for 2 minutes," said Madame B. "Do you remember that?"

Natasha nodded. Of course she remembered; the instruction had been extremely unusual, and besides, she knew that everything Madame B said or did was for a reason. To ignore an instruction from Madame B was one of the stupidest things a girl could do at the Red Room Academy.

"Very good," said Madame B, sounding pleased. "And have you been practicing? Are you able to hold your breath for that amount of time?"

Natasha nodded again, wondering where this was going.

"Excellent," said Madame B. "You have already passed the first part of this test."

Natasha's fine eyebrows shot up in surprise. How could she have already passed the first part of the test? She had not  _done_ anything yet.

Madame B smiled, her eyes crinkling with amusement at the look of surprise on Natasha's face.

"As a KGB agent, there may be occasions when your superior officer gives you instructions without telling you the reason behind them," said Madame B. "It is important that you follow every single instruction given to you, not matter how small or insignificant it may seem. The first part of this test was to see if you would remember and obey my instruction to learn how to hold your breath, even though you were not given a reason or a deadline."

Natasha nodded slowly. It made sense. She exhaled slowly, suddenly extremely thankful that she had been sensible enough to follow Madame B's instruction. She wondered if any of her classmates had been foolish enough to ignore it.

"And what's the second part of the test?" she asked tentatively, although she had an inkling that she already knew the answer.

Madame B's eyes flicked momentarily towards the bathtub in front of them, confirming Natasha's suspicion. Natasha followed her gaze, staring down at the innocuous-looking water and swallowing nervously.

"A test of your ability to keep calm and hold your breath," said Madame B smoothly. "I will hold your head below the water for exactly 2 minutes. If you want to survive, you must hold your breath. I will not let you back up for air until the 2 minutes are up, even if you are drowning."

Natasha's eyes widened as fear started pulsing through her body once more. This was intense, even by Madame B's standards. She should not have expected any less. She had known that the Red Room Academy's final year examinations would be extreme. The KGB only wanted the most capable girls, after all.

Madame B's features softened as she trailed a gentle hand through Natasha's red curls.

"If you have practiced as you say you have, you will be fine," she said softly, before her hand suddenly tightened in Natasha's hair, her grip becoming vice-like.

It was the only warning that Natasha received before Madame B suddenly dragged her to her knees and forced her head under the water.

She realised what was happening a split second before her face was submerged in the water, taking a huge gulp of air before her face was forced beneath the surface.

The water was warm. That was Natasha's first, thankful thought as she found her face surrounded by the warm caress of the bath water. It could have been worse. Natasha had practiced holding her breath in various temperatures and it was definitely more difficult in cold water.

Her second thought was that she had to clear her mind and force herself to calm down in order to slow down her heart rate.

It had been easy when she had been practicing in the bath in the evenings; she had not been physically held down or told that if she failed, she would simply be left to drown.

This, however, was not a practice run. This was the real thing, and the very real feeling of Madame B's hand in her hair, and the echo of her promise not to let her up for air before the 2 minute mark, was making it a lot harder to calm down than when she was practicing alone in a danger-free environment.

She was using up her precious supply of oxygen too quickly; she could feel it in the burning sensation in her throat and in the painful heaviness that was washing over her body. A small bubble of air escaped her lips. Her panic kicked up another notch.

_Calm down._

She forced herself to remember that this would only be for 2 minutes, that Madame B would let her up for air as soon as the mandatory 2 minutes were over.

Fighting down the urge to try to push her head above the water (doing so would only use up precious energy and oxygen), she concentrated on her heart beat.

She thought about sharing strawberries with Elena and sitting with James on his squishy red sofa, making bouquets of daffodils. She thought about how one time, when she was around 9 years old, she had tried to teach James how to plait her hair. The results had been disastrous – the plaits, if they could even be called plaits, were wonky and messy – but the two of them had taken one look at her hair afterwards and fallen about laughing so hard that tears had rolled down their cheeks.

Natasha smiled under the water, feeling a warm glow inside her chest that had nothing to do with oxygen deprivation.

She could hear her heart beat slowing right down in her ears. She continued thinking about happy memories as the soothing thoughts calmed her down.

She remembered the time that Elena had been adamant that she had psychic powers, how she would stare hard at the other girls in an attempt to read their minds. Natasha had asked her what Katerina had been thinking one time, and Elena had said that she was thinking about how much of a poo head she was. They had not been able to look at Katerina without laughing for about a week afterwards.

She remembered the time, not so long ago, that she had asked James if he knew any English nursery rhymes. He had smiled and said that he remembered a few that his mother had sung to him when he was young. He had spent the afternoon teaching her songs such as Humpty Dumpty and Rock-a-bye Baby, the two of them singing softly together as they sat in front of the fire in his living room.

Natasha smiled dreamily in the bathtub. She was calm, so calm, the warmth of her memories wrapping her in a protective cocoon that kept her heart rate slow and her body slack. She wondered briefly how long she had been underwater; it felt like they must be approaching the 2 minute mark by now.

Almost as soon as the thought entered her mind, Natasha felt Madame B gently pull her head out of the water, the cool air of the classroom hitting her face and making her take a huge gasp of air. She coughed and laughed reflexively as cool, wonderful oxygen filled her lungs, the burning in her throat and muscles fading away as she gulped down large mouthfuls of air.

Madame B handed her a towel to dry her face. Natasha took it silently, wiping the water from her face as her special memories of Elena and James faded from her mind's eye.

"Well done," said Madame B, the pleasure in her voice evident. "You have passed the third test."

Natasha gripped the towel that she still had pressed against her face a little harder, as a frisson of anxiety shot through her chest.

Third test passed.

She was one step closer to freedom – but also sterilisation.

 

* * *

 

The fourth test, Madame B explained, was one of hand-to-hand combat.

Madame B once again led Natasha to a new room, this time kitted out with gym mats on the floor. Vladimir was sat down in the corner of the room, reading a book, when they entered. Upon seeing them, he snapped his book shut, standing up smoothly and walking over.

"Madame B," he said, quirking a small smile at the woman.

"Vladimir," Madame B greeted in return, letting her eyes linger on his lean figure.

Natasha shivered. Despite Vladimir being in his late-middle age by now, he was still a powerhouse when it came to fighting, his slim physique hiding the strength that lay hidden in his lithe, sinewy muscles.

This would not be an easy fight.

Madame B stepped between them, laying a hand on both of their shoulders, and Natasha was instantly transported back to when Madame B had made her fight with Katerina to the death; she had laid a hand on both their shoulders that time as well.

"This will be a simple sparring match. You may use your bodies only; no weapons are allowed. The first one to hit the ground loses. There will be three rounds. The person to win either two or all three matches will win," explained Madame B.

Natasha and Vladimir nodded in understanding, facing each other as Madame B held onto their shoulders.

"Very well," said Madame B. "You may begin!"

She let go of them and neatly stepped back out of the way as Natasha and Vladimir launched themselves at one another.

Natasha was not expecting Vladimir to immediately punch her in the face. Her hands flew up to her face in shock as she tasted blood, leaving her midsection exposed. She realised her mistake immediately, but before she could lower her hands again to defend herself, Vladimir had landed another hard punch in her stomach, causing her to crumple to the ground, her eyes watering.

Natasha sat there in shock for a couple of seconds, disbelief and anger flooding through her because Vladimir had just  _won_ the first round after barely 10 seconds.

"Vladimir wins round one," said Madame B, sounding disappointed.

Natasha grit her teeth as she got back to her feet, ignoring her pain in her jaw and her stomach where Vladimir had punched her as she glowered at her opponent. She would not allow her concentration to slip this time. She  _had_ to win this round; if Vladimir won again, he would have won the best of out three. She could not fail. Failure meant death.

Madame B counted down from three, and as soon as the fight began afresh, Natasha hurled herself at Vladimir, punching him in the throat in an attempt to wind him.

It worked, for about a second, but Vladimir had clearly been expecting the attack, as his arms tightened around her middle after the initial shock wore off. He was trying to throw her off balance, jerking her violently back and forth, but Natasha did not budge, wrapping one leg tightly around his waist so that she would not fall.

The action pressed their groins together and Natasha jerked involuntarily as she felt his rock hard erection pressing against her crotch, the disgust clearly showing on her face as Vladimir smirked in return.

Natasha suddenly felt a hot coil of anger tighten inside of her. This was the man who had kidnapped her from the hospital, dragging her from a normal life and forcing her to become part of this freak show. This was the man who had been prepared to rape her and her classmates, before the Winter Soldier was brought in at the last minute. Natasha's stomach turned as she realised, with a fresh wave of horror, that he likely raped all the students every year when they turned 16. The Winter Soldier coming in when she had turned 16 was simply a coincidence; in normal circumstances, it would have been Vladimir.

She concentrated all her anger into her right knee, bringing it up as hard as she could into his testicles, causing him to drop to the floor immediately with a howl of pain.

She stepped back, breathing hard as she surveyed the man at her feet as Madame B smiled and made a pleased-sounding noise as she announced that Natasha had won the second round.

After a couple of minutes, Vladimir finally managed to get back onto this feet, still wincing and clutching at his crotch, his eyes watering with obvious pain. Natasha felt a small thrill of satisfaction shoot down her spine.

He was hurt. Good. Vladimir deserved pain.

Madame B's eyes were bright as she counted them down for the third and final round of their fight. She seemed genuinely interested and curious as to who would win.

Natasha stared hard at Vladimir as they threw themselves at one another for the final time.

She aimed a hard kick at his ankle but he jumped out of the way at the last millisecond, her foot flying into empty space instead. Darting to the side, he grabbed a hold of her arm, using his momentum to spin her around so that her back was pressed up against him, his arms wrapped tightly around her neck and her chest as he tried to force her down onto the ground.

Natasha thrashed in his tight grip, feeling herself becoming deprived of oxygen for the second time that day as his arm pressed down on her throat. She grit her teeth and grunted as she tried to fight him off.

She had to win. If she won, she would be allowed to leave the Red Room Academy. Forever. She would get to experience freedom.

But she would also be sterilised...

Her life had never been one that contained choices. Decisions were made for her. Madame B told her what to wear, when to eat, how to kill and lie and steal and seduce and any other skills that she deemed necessary for Natasha's life as a KGB agent. And now she wanted to take control of Natasha one final time, to make that life-changing decision to sterilise her, to stop her from ever having children. Madame B was going to take her choice away from her one last time, for something that should be Natasha's decision and Natasha's decision alone.

No.

She would not allow Madame B to do that to her. She would not let Madame B sterilise her.

She dropped to her knees, allowing Vladimir to press her face down onto the gym mat.

Her heart hammered erratically in her chest, fear spurting through her as her actions finally caught up to her. She had deliberately lost the final match. She had lost. She had failed.

Her eyes flew up to Madame B immediately, fear making her pupils dilate as her mouth dried up in terror. Madame B was going to kill her, she knew it. She had just signed her own death sentence.

How could she have done something so stupid?

_Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit._

Madame B crossed her arms, a frown creasing her forehead as she pouted, as if Natasha had simply done something to  _annoy_ her, rather than do something unacceptable like  _failing_.

"Sloppy," said Madame B, helping Natasha to her feet. "Pretending to fail."

Natasha blushed bright red, humiliated and slightly ashamed that Madame B had seen so easily through her charade. She prided herself in being a good liar. Perhaps she was not as good as she liked to think.

"The ceremony is necessary for you to take your place in the world," said Madame B, the annoyance leaving her face to be replaced by a look of pity.

Natasha swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat as she pondered her place in the world. She was raised by the Red Room Academy to be a machine-like agent for the KGB, amoral and willing to comply to any order, however horrific: to kill, to torture, to kidnap, to steal, to lie, to cheat. She was so far removed from the ordinary people that she would be protecting that it was almost laughable. The Red Room Academy took in girls and spat out mindless drones, an endless conveyor belt of brainwashing, pain and perfect agents.

"I have no place in the world," said Natasha, the realisation making her choke a little with the emotions that it elicited: horror, shock, self-loathing, depression, bitter acceptance.

Madame B smiled, looking genuinely pleased that Natasha had come to the conclusion all by herself. "Exactly," she said softly, reaching up to wipe a tear from Natasha's cheek.

She had not even realised she was crying.

"I am willing to overlook this charade," said Madame B. "There is just one more part to this examination, one last test. I am giving you one final chance to behave yourself and fulfil your real potential. If you fail again, either genuinely or otherwise, you know what will happen. The Red Room Academy does not tolerate failure."

Natasha nodded numbly. She could not quite believe that she was being given another chance to prove herself. It seemed too good to be true. Perhaps Madame B was being lenient with her because she knew that Natasha could have won that last sparring match with Vladimir, if she had wanted to. Madame B knew just how good Natasha was.

Natasha took a deep breath. Just one more test. She could do this. If she just passed this one final test, then she would be free. She could figure out a way to try to get out of the sterilisation when it came to it.

She released her breath, thankful that Madame B was giving her one more chance. It had been a mistake to pretend to fail.

Freedom beckoned her, seductive and so so  _near_. Perhaps she would go to the beach. Elena had always wanted to go to the seaside.

Madame B, eerily, seemed to pick up on her thoughts. It was a coincidence, of course, but inwardly Natasha shivered when Madame B spoke next, having to force herself to remember that her thoughts were indeed private.

"In the past, you had a friendship with Elena," said Madame B.

Natasha nodded tightly. She could not deny it. She did not want to deny it.

"It was a weakness," said Madame B.

Natasha grit her teeth and forced herself to nod again, sending out a silent apology to both Elena and James for belittling the value of the bonds she shared with them.

"You don't still have sentimental feelings towards friendship, do you?" asked Madame B. "You don't still see it as something positive, do you?"

Natasha forced herself to shake her head.

"No, Madame B," she said, secretly relieved when her voice came out sounding so confident. "There is no value in friendship. Love is for children. Elena and I were just silly children, that was all."

Madame B looked at her for a long moment, her blue eyes penetrating Natasha's green ones, piercing her soul. Natasha tried hard not to blink. Madame B sighed.

"We will see," was all Madame B said, before walking out of the room, gesturing for Natasha to follow her.

Natasha fell into step behind Madame B as she led her towards another room at the end of the corridor. She could hear faint noises coming from the room; muffled grunting and the sound of someone crying out with pain and fear. The noises became louder and clearer as they approached the room.

Natasha swallowed nervously.

They finally reached the end of the corridor. Madame B pushed open the door and stepped inside. Natasha followed suit, swallowing down the queasy feeling in her stomach when she saw the source of the noises she had heard from all the way down the corridor.

A man was tied to a chair, his hands cuffed behind his back and a thick hood pulled over his head, completely obscuring his identity. Vladimir was standing in front of the hooded man, his knuckles bloody.

Clearly, he had been giving the man a beating before they had arrived. Seeing them enter the room, Vladimir gave Natasha a nasty grin before sauntering from the room, whistling and slamming the door shut behind him.

Natasha turned back to face the man, taking in the way his body trembled and how quiet sobs came from underneath the hood, muffled by the thick material.

Natasha heard the click of a gun being cocked and spun around immediately, her stance ready to fight, but Madame B simply raised her eyebrows and gave her a stern look as she handed the gun to Natasha.

Natasha flushed, taking the gun and running her fingers over the metal.

"You are one of the best shooters I have had the pleasure to teach," said Madame B. "No one can shoot a bullseye like you can."

Natasha smiled but stayed silent. It was true. Her skills with a gun were unrivalled. Even Tatiana, who was her equal in all other respects, could not come close to beating her in a shooting competition. She felt herself relax. If this test was one of marksmanship, then her freedom was basically assured. She could shoot straighter than anyone, even Madame B.

"The final test is this," said Madame B. "You are to shoot this man in the forehead. I want to see a perfect bullseye."

Natasha nodded tightly, moving so that she was stood about four metres away from the man, directly in front of him. She felt the weight of the gun in her hand, familiarising herself with the feel and the balance of the weapon.

Shoot the man in the head. Got it. She could do this. She had killed countless people before. She was even using her preferred weapon.

It was almost too easy.

Madame B crossed over to the man tied to the chair, looking up at Natasha briefly before grasping the hood and pulling it off the man completely, revealing his face.

_No._

Natasha almost dropped the gun in shock. She felt her mouth drop open but could not bring herself to close it as horror exploded in her chest. The man's face was bruised and bleeding from the beating that Vladimir had given him, but he was still clearly recognisable, from his large brown eyes, to his curly white hair, to the mouth that Natasha had shared a thousand laughs with, now contorted in pain.

It was James.

Natasha's breath came out in sharp bursts, her eyes wide as she tried to process the sight in front of her. James. She had to kill  _James_. Her hands were shaking in shock, tears were trickling down her cheeks, but she did not have the awareness or the inclination to wipe them away.

All she could do was stare at James. Time seemed to slow down. The world shrank so that her entire universe came down to that one little room in the Red Room Academy. Nothing existed outside. Her entire awareness, her entire being, was encased in those four walls, with James and Madame B and a gun in her hands.

Suddenly, the metal felt incredibly heavy. Natasha lowered her shaking arms, pointing the gun at the floor rather than at James.

James was terrified. His brown eyes were huge. He was sobbing, his throat sounding raw from crying. He could not seem to bring himself to stop. He started shaking his head violently, drawing in huge gulps of air as he tried to quash his heart-wrenching sobs.

"Natasha," he moaned. "My little girl. My little angel. What are they doing to you?"

He choked at the end of his sentence, dissolving into a fresh bout of tears as he stared up at Natasha with such misery and pain and terror in his eyes that Natasha had to look away. She could not bear to see someone she loved in so much pain.

She wanted to run to James and untie him from the chair, throw her arms around him and comfort him as if he were a child. She wanted to rock him, to tend to his wounds, to kiss his forehead and hold him gently, protecting him from pain and fear and the entire fucked up world. She wanted nothing more than to do all those things, but her bodily functions had seemingly deserted her, and she simply stood frozen and silent instead.

"Natasha!" he repeated, half way between a shout and a whine.

James sounded frightened.

Natasha felt a fresh slew of tears roll down her face. She could barely breathe.

"Do you remember when you plaited my hair?" she blurted out all of a sudden.

She saw Madame B shift in her peripheral vision. She knew that she was basically admitting to having flouted the Red Room Academy's 'no friendship' rule for the last however many years, but she could not bring herself to care. It seemed that Madame B had known she was visiting James the entire time.

She swallowed bitterly. All this time, when she was thinking that she had tricked them, they had known all along. They had been the ones tricking her, allowing their friendship to blossom perhaps for the simple reason of this very moment. Forcing Natasha to kill a friend would be so much more meaningful than forcing her to kill a stranger. It would scar her for life, forever linking the concept of friendship with agonising grief.

It was smart. Madame B was so smart.

"I couldn't plait your hair for toffee," replied James. "It looked like a bomb had gone off in your hair."

Despite the desperate terror of the situation, or perhaps because of it, they both laughed.

Something in the mood of the room shifted. Suddenly, it was as if Madame B was not there. It felt as if it were only Natasha and James, hanging out like they always did, their words coming easily and naturally.

"I practiced, you know," said James hesitantly. "I practiced plaiting with bits of string and hay, but you never asked me to do your hair again."

Natasha let out a little laugh that ended up sounding more like a sob.

"I'm sorry, I should have given you another chance," she said. "But, you know, the first time  _was_ a disaster."

They tittered again, both of them unwilling or unable to bring up the enormous elephant in the room; the fucked up nature of the situation.

"Do you remember when we ate strawberries that summer in 1994?" asked Natasha. "I brought you a punnet and we ate them in your field while we talked."

James' eyes misted over as he nodded.

"That was a lovely day," he said. "Whenever I've eaten strawberries since then, I've thought of you."

This time, the sound that came out of Natasha was most definitely a sob. It suddenly seemed incredibly important that they remembered all of these little moments together; all the little fragments of memories that they had shared.

They were not grand, world-changing moments, but they were  _their_ moments, and that made them so valuable that Natasha suddenly did not think there would ever be words adequate enough to describe just how special and important they were to her.

James was precious. He was kind and gentle and caring. He gave love as freely as the sky gave rain. He was unique, intelligent and so wonderfully individual that Natasha knew she would never meet anyone like him. Her heart ached. She wanted to whisk him away somewhere safe, somewhere warm and far away, where Madame B and the Red Room Academy and the KGB would never find him, would never hurt him ever again.

But she knew that that was impossible. James was here, now. He was tied to a chair in the Red Room Academy, and Natasha knew for a fact that Madame B would never let him leave alive. He had seen too much. If they let him go, he would run to the police and the entire programme would come crashing down. Madame B would not tolerate James' survival any more than she would tolerate Natasha's failure.

"You gave me daffodils," said Natasha, trying and failing to hold back a sob. "When I was 6 years old, you gave me daffodils and tied them up with a piece of twine that you tied into a bow."

James smiled gently as he got lost in the memory.

"Daffodils are my favourite flower," he said dreamily.

Natasha brought up a shaking hand to wipe her face, but the tears kept on coming and, after a few seconds, she gave up.

"They're beautiful," she said, a strangled moan coming from her throat before she could hold it back.

James looked up at the sound, his forehead creasing with concern.

"Hey," he shushed quietly. "Don't cry, little one."

Natasha bawled even harder. James was looking at her with such kindness and concern in his big brown eyes. The fear had melted away from him, replaced by a kind of quiet strength that perhaps came from acceptance.

"I'm not afraid of death, Natasha," he said quietly, looking her straight in the eye.

Natasha froze. She did not want him to talk about dying. She was not ready. It could not be time for that yet. There was still so much more that she wanted to say.

"If there is a God and Heaven, then I believe I have lived a good enough life that I will be allowed to enter the pearly gates. I will see Alexei again. We were little boys last time we were together. We have so much to catch up on, so much to discuss."

Natasha dropped the gun to the floor as she clutched her hands to her chest. The tears were flowing continuously now. She did not want James to die. She was not ready.

"And if there's no such thing as an afterlife... Well, I’ve had a good run."

James looked a little sad as he said it, as if he were hoping that there was a Heaven. Natasha found herself suddenly hoping so too, even though she was not religious; James had sounded so happy when he had spoken about seeing Alexei again.

"You have to kill me," said James. It was a statement, not a question. "I heard your teacher talking to you before she removed the hood. She said it was some kind of test."

Natasha nodded numbly, wiping tears and snot off her face with the hem of her sleeve.

"It's what I have to do if I want to... see the big blue sky," she replied.

The big blue sky: freedom. James had told her, years ago, that he thought that freedom looked like a big blue sky. Natasha hoped that he understood the reference; she did not want to mention the word 'freedom' in front of Madame B.

James nodded, signalling that he understood. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily. Natasha could see tears trickling from the corners of his closed eyes and down his cheeks. He looked so young, so vulnerable. Natasha wanted to run over to him and kiss the tears from his cheeks.

When he opened his eyes again, they were clear and calm.

"I forgive you," he said softly. "And I'm ready."

Natasha shook her head hard, her red curls bouncing wildly.

"I'm not," she cried. Her whole body was shaking and breaking out in a cold sweat. "I love you."

James' face crumpled momentarily as he let out another sob, shaking slightly in his chair.

"I love you too," he said gently, the slight bulging of his eyes the only thing belying his inner fear. "Please, Natasha – can you hurry up and do this before I lose my nerve?"

It was a question, not an order. Even now, while he was staring death in the face, he was still looking out for Natasha's well-being, letting his wishes be known but not forcing Natasha to do anything she was not ready for.

James was ready to die. The realisation hit Natasha like a freight train. Natasha owed it to him to make the end quick and painless before he became consumed by fear. James had given her so much love over the years. She owed him this at the very least.

She bent down and picked up the gun with trembling fingers. The metal felt cold and evil in her hands. She hated the gun, hated it with all her guts, because this was the gun that would kill James, and James deserved none of it.

As if on autopilot, she wrapped her finger around the trigger and raised her arm.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her green eyes glistening and her heart heavy with the weight of all the words that she wanted to say to this beautiful, wonderful man.

James did not reply. He simply nodded his head once to indicate that he was ready, closing his eyes in preparation.

Natasha pulled the trigger.

It was a perfect bullseye.

Madame B was right; she never failed.

 

* * *

 

It was time for the graduation ceremony.

Natasha was tied down to what she suspected was a gurney, her wrists and ankles being strapped down for the second time in less than 24 hours.

She stared up at the ceiling, watching silently as a small team of doctors wheeled her along to a classroom-come-operating theatre.

She felt numb. She gazed upwards, unseeing, in a daze. She felt as though she was trapped inside a nightmare. This could not be real. Just this morning, she had been planning what to do with James to celebrate her graduation.

And now James was dead.

She had killed him.

James and Elena were the only two friends she had ever had, and now they were both gone. Natasha felt too numb to even cry. She had never felt so completely, hopelessly alone.

She was finally going to leave the Red Room Academy. She was finally going to be released into the world and taste freedom, but it felt like a hollow victory.

She may finally be free, or as free as she can be whilst under the control of the KGB, but it had cost her her humanity. She had killed James – her best friend, her only friend, the man who had been like a father to her, who had given her so much love and so many happy memories.

She hated herself. She was a monster.

She noticed dully that the doctors had stopped and were now moving around, preparing for the operation. If she titled her head to the left, she could see the sharp implements they would soon be using to sterilise her. If she tilted her head to the right, she could see the anaesthetist preparing to put her under.

She wriggled her wrists experimentally, finding that the bonds were loose enough for her to slip out of without too much difficulty. She had ample time and opportunity to escape her bonds and kill the medical staff.

But she did not.

Because she deserved this. She had killed James. James, who was sweet and kind and gentle and looked after rejected baby piglets and loved daffodils. James, who had the loveliest smile of anyone she had ever met. James, who deserved so much more than for his life to be cut short by a bullet in the head.

What kind of person killed someone like that?

A monster – that was who. She was a monster. She did not deserve to be a mother. She did not have the right to bring a life into the world when she had taken so many lives herself.

These were the thoughts that were swirling inside her, a storm of pain and grief and horror, when the anaesthetist placed a mask over her face and encouraged her to take a few deep breaths.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Madame B watching.

Her eyes prickled with tears.

She took a deep breath. Then another. And then another.

Her eyelids became so heavy that it became a monumental effort just to keep them open.

In the distance, she thought she could hear James calling her name. It was her mind playing tricks on her, she knew that, but she clung to the sound, because suddenly it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.

She took one final deep breath.

The last thing she saw in her mind’s eye, before slipping into oblivion, was James' smile and his warm brown eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JAMES AND GRADUATING FROM THE RED ROOM ACADEMY: RIP James... You were a wonderful person who didn't deserve to meet such a horrible end :'( Please don't hate me for killing him off, readers; I cried when he died too. Madame B is an evil, evil woman; it was cruel to the extreme to use James as a pawn to break the very last of Natasha's humanity. How do you think James' death will affect Natasha psychologically? And how will she cope with life away from the Red Room Academy?
> 
> WILL WE RETURN TO THE RED ROOM ACADEMY? A good question. You'll just have to keep reading to find out...
> 
> AVENGERS: AGE OF ULTRON: If you've watched Avengers: Age Of Ultron, you may have recognised some of the dialogue in this chapter. If you've not watched it, I'd recommend it; it's a good film. You will also get to (briefly) see what Madame B looks like!
> 
> FORESHADOWING: Well done if you noted the significance of Madame B's instruction for the girls to learn how to hold their breath for 2 minutes, which she gave at the end of Chapter 13. It foreshadowed the drowning part of this chapter.
> 
> TITLE: If you were wondering why this story is titled "Fearless", now you know! (It's her answer to the question, or the imperative sentence, 'choose one word that describes you completely'.)
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "The Black Widow" and will explore how Natasha copes with her new life as a KGB agent.
> 
> TUMBLR: I'm on Tumblr :) If you want to tumble with me and see the graphics that I make to go with each chapter, my username is ao3-elle1991
> 
> THANK YOU: A million thanks to the people who have been leaving such lovely comments! It makes me so happy to know you're enjoying Natasha's journey! <3


	15. The Black Widow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little late. These chapters usually take about a week for me to write, but this one just kept going and going and going! I hope the length will compensate for the delay. Enjoy!
> 
> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/156407857201/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)
> 
> Chapter warning: Brief graphic violence.

2003 – Aged 19

 

* * *

 

For about a month after she graduated from the Red Room Academy, Natasha was given no missions.

She was taken to a small, grubby flat in Moscow, and left there to get used to life away from the school.

She lived alone.

The silence of the flat spooked her, as did the lack of human interaction. At first, she tried to brighten up the flat, buying cheap paintings to go on the concrete walls and bright rugs to cover the dusty wooden floors, but after about a week she gave up; the flat was too decrepit to look nice. She thought briefly that it would never look as nice or homely as James' farmhouse, before shoving these thoughts away. It hurt to think of James.

Natasha spent long hours looking out of the window. The world outside went about its business. Cars drove down the streets, families walked along the pavements and music blasted from radios that were turned up too loud by inconsiderate neighbours.

Natasha was in the middle of it all, and yet, somehow, she felt completely separated from it, as if she were trapped on the other side of some invisible wall.

She had not realised that freedom would feel so lonely.

She kept a careful watch on her neighbours. It took her only a few days to realise that the man who lived in the flat across the hall from her was keeping a close watch on her too. The sharp look in the man's eyes and the quietness of his footsteps told Natasha that he was very likely to be a fellow KGB agent. Perhaps he was her superior officer, observing her and waiting for some cue that she was ready for her first mission.

She had no particular inclination to go and talk to the man, however. It was a strange feeling, to be so lonely and yet to want the man to leave her alone. She did not like the fact that he was watching her. It felt stifling and oppressive.

To her surprise, Natasha missed the Red Room Academy. At the Red Room Academy, there were always people around, their days were strictly organised and they were always receiving some kind of training or tuition. She had never been bored at the Red Room Academy.

But she was bored now. She had had such high hopes and expectations of freedom, but it was just  _boring_.

To save herself from going mad, she formed a routine. She focused on keeping herself both physically and mentally fit. She did exercises in her flat and went running around the local park. She took out books from the local library. Her favourite books were those on poetry and those in the English language. Sometimes she would come across an English word that she was unfamiliar with, but this was rare, her standard of education having been so high at the Red Room Academy.

A lot of the time, she spent hours lying on her too-hard bed, trying to ignore the springs digging into her back as her thoughts slipped, inevitably, to Elena and James. She thought about whether Elena was on the moon and whether James was up there with her, making bouquets of daffodils. She thought about her last conversation with James; how brave he had been to stare death in the face like that, so calm and accepting.

As she fell asleep in the evenings, she liked to plot all the ways she could kill Madame B: a bullet in her head, drowning her in a bathtub, poison sprinkled over her porridge. It felt good, even though Natasha knew, deep down, that it was only a fantasy.

For the most part, she simply  _existed_. Every little task felt like a chore. Her days were long and grey and empty. Ever since she had graduated – ever since she had been forced to kill James and been forcibly sterilised – she felt as though she had simply been drifting through the days. She felt as though she were a ghost, haunting a world that was devoid of colour.

If she had bothered to visit a psychiatrist, she would probably have been diagnosed with depression, but, of course, she did not go to visit a doctor. She simply existed, feeling as empty and emotionless as a ballerina figurine spinning atop a music box, getting through the days on auto-pilot.

She was so lonely.

She was so  _bored_.

When she arrived back at her flat after going for a jog one day to find a folder placed on her bed, it came almost as a relief.

Picking up the folder and opening it carefully, she realised that it contained a single sheet of A4 paper and a photograph. On the sheet of paper were the instructions and details of her first mission.

A smile spread slowly across her face as she let out a small sigh of relief.

A mission.

This was her purpose.

This was what she had been made for.

 

* * *

 

Her first mission was to assassinate Abbud Masoud, the head of the Saudi Arabian oil company Masoud Petroleum.

The folder that had been left on her bed had not provided her with much information. She was given only Masoud's name, address, photograph and a deadline. She was not given money, transport or a weapon.

Despite this, Natasha found herself smiling. She had done far more with far less before. The Red Room Academy had trained her to be inventive and resourceful. She could do this.

Perhaps the KGB wanted to test her abilities before giving her more missions. Perhaps this was a test run. Natasha set her jaw determinedly as she vowed to give them the best demonstration of her skills possible. The folder stated that she had two weeks to complete the mission. Natasha felt sure that she could complete it in one.

Flitting around her sparsely furnished flat, she gathered together a few belongings that she felt would be necessary for the mission. Several changes of clothes, a knife, her lock picking set, a Russian road map and some food all went into her bag. She did not take the mission instructions – being caught with them would be disastrous and she had memorised every detail anyway. She did not need a paper copy when all the information was stored safely in her head.

Zipping up her bag, Natasha pulled on her boots and her leather jacket, which she had bought using the meagre funds that the Red Room Academy had deposited into her bank account at the point of graduation.

The amount of money in her bank account was dwindling – the KGB had not paid her yet – but she knew that getting her hands on more money would not be difficult. She was a Red Room Academy graduate, after all. She had skills.

Not wanting to waste any more time, she quickly crossed her small flat and stepped outside, locking the door behind her and tucking the key into her pocket.

She already had a plan of action formulated in her head. To get to Saudi Arabia, she would need transport. And to get her hands on some wheels, she would need cash. Therefore, the first part of the job was easy: get cash.

Luckily, the Red Room Academy had taught her to be a very good thief.

 

* * *

 

It was two days later that Natasha finally got her first, tiny taste of freedom.

The realisation came to her as she was camping in the wilderness of Azerbaijan; the Greater Caucasus Mountains to the west, the Caspian Sea to the east.

Having successfully stolen enough money to buy a second-hand motorbike from an unscrupulous salesman back in Moscow two days earlier, she had been riding along the long road trailing south out of Russia, having entered Azerbaijan just before nightfall.

She was pitching up her cheap tent and unrolling her thick, warm sleeping bag when it hit her.

She was alone in the wilderness. There were no KGB agents following her. Madame B was not about to jump out at her from around some corner. The man who lived across the hallway was not about to stick his head out of a window to observe her.

She was alone, unwatched, unsupervised, and it was  _glorious_.

She dropped the sleeping bag with shaking hands, suddenly all thoughts of sleeping vanishing as a bubble of joy swelled inside her chest and burst, causing her to let out a small sob of happiness.

She dropped to her knees and ran her fingers across the cool, moist grass under her palms, relishing the feeling of the slightly damp earth and not feeling the slightest bit embarrassed about how cheesy this may look to an outside observer.

Because there  _was_ no outside observer.

She could strip off her clothes and holler and whoop. She could jump into the Caspian Sea and go for a swim. She could spend the night singing English nursery rhymes at the top of her voice, if she wanted to, because there was no one there to stop her.

Sure, she still had a job to do – she still had to get to Saudi Arabia and kill Abbud Masoud and make it back to Moscow before the 2 week deadline; she was still owned by the KGB – but for tonight, she could ignore that.

She could pretend that she had not been plucked from an innocent childhood and made into a monster. She could pretend that there was not a deadline on the amount of time she was permitted to be away from her Moscow flat performing the mission. She could pretend that she was her own woman, not controlled or owned by the KGB. She could pretend to be free.

It was a lie, but she could pretend.

She pulled her coat a little more tightly around herself, shrugging off the stiff evening breeze as she turned slowly on the spot, letting herself marvel at the sheer natural beauty of the place she had chosen to camp.

The Caspian Sea was a large, flat expanse of dark water, silent and smooth and sparkling like diamonds in the twilight. When she turned to face the other direction, the Greater Caucasus Mountains rose majestically from the ground, towering above her and reminding her that she was small and fleeting and insignificant compared to the everlasting wall of rock that jutted up from the landscape.

It was so beautiful she almost wanted to cry.

All of a sudden, she was reminded of Alexander Pushkin's poem Confession, one of the lines floating into her consciousness of its own volition.

_I'm beguiled. In silence, reddening, all forgetting, I watch you like a spellbound child._

She felt very much like a child then, awed by the beauty of the natural landscape and spellbound by the realisation of her own faux-freedom.

She took off her shoes and socks and wiggled her toes in the ground, letting her feet get dirty with mud and grass, allowing herself to feel free, watched by no one.

The grass felt wonderful between her toes and she smiled slightly with child-like delight at how it tickled slightly on her sensitive skin.

She lay back so that she was flat on the ground, the shimmering of the Caspian Sea and the dark shadows of the mountains in her peripheral vision, as she watched the stars emerge in the rapidly darkening sky. There was no light pollution here; she was miles away from any settlements. The road she was travelling along was not widely known and therefore rarely used. No one was around to interrupt her star-gazing and the realisation made her soul sing.

After a long while, when the last orange wisps of dusk had faded away from the sky, leaving it an inky black, she was taken by the urge to speak.

She cleared her throat, suddenly self-conscious, because all her life she had been hiding her innermost thoughts, keeping them locked inside, never verbalising them out loud for fear of being overheard by Madame B or some over-curious classmate, but now there was no one around to eavesdrop on her and  _God_  that felt good.

"Hello Elena," she said quietly, her voice sounding loud in the stillness of the night. She looked up at the moon, a thin crescent overheard, its silvery fingers reflecting off the smooth surface of the Caspian Sea. "Are you up there?"

She smiled to herself. Elena's theory about death – that the deceased were transported by a chariot to the moon when they passed away – was beautifully unique. She turned her eyes to the Caspian Sea, watching the smooth surface of the water and listening to the quiet lapping of the waves against the shoreline for an indeterminable amount of time, simply letting a feeling of calm wash over her.

"You always wanted to go to the sea," she continued, keeping her voice low, because even though there was no one else around to hear her, this was a private conversation between her and Elena, and it felt appropriate to keep her voice quiet. "Here we are. Is it as good as you thought it would be?"

Of course, there was no reply.

Natasha knew there would not be, yet somehow she could not help feeling a little disappointed, like this place, where she was unwatched and could pretend that she was free, was magical, and that such a magical place should be able to resurrect the dead, if they were worthy.

"There may be a man up there with you who's feeling very scared and alone right now," she whispered. "His name is James, and he died a month ago. He used to live in the farmhouse next to the Red Room Academy. He's probably feeling very lonely right now, so if you see him, will you be his friend? He's a good man. I... I killed him. Can you look after him, help make things right?"

She did not realise that she was crying until the tears started to cool on her face, making her shiver with the cold.

It was the first time she had cried, or indeed expressed any kind of emotion, since she had left the Red Room Academy. It felt as though being stuck in her grubby Moscow flat was slowly sucking the life out of her. She only felt alive now, when she was miles away from anyone, dutifully conducting a mission and getting to pretend that she was free while she was at it.

After a while, the tears slowed and stopped, and she eventually crawled into her tent and slipped into her sleeping bag, keeping her knife out by her side just in case some animal or person decided to pay her a night-time visit.

She kept the entrance to the tent unzipped, letting herself gaze up at the starlit sky and the way the moon glittered on the Caspian Sea.

She smiled.

She was not free, but for tonight, she could pretend.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Natasha had travelled through Azerbaijan, Iran and Iraq and had finally arrived at Saudi Arabia.

Getting through the borders had been fairly easy. The borders were so long that it was impossible for the guards to patrol their entire length the whole time, so she had simply slipped across at the sections where there were no guards present and there had been no problems. It helped that she had brought with her a pair of wire cutters.

Pulling out a Saudi Arabian road map that she had picked up when she had travelled through the border town of Rafha, she plotted out a course to Masoud's residence and secured her helmet back onto her head, kicking her motorbike to life and roaring down the road at the steady pace.

She arrived at her destination about 4 hours later, just after sunset.

She slowed to a stop and pushed her motorbike behind a group of boulders. Masoud's house was a couple of miles away from the nearest other building, but she still was not going to take any chances. She did not know if perhaps there may be private security guards patrolling the residence.

Settling down behind the cluster of rocks, she pulled out a pair of night vision goggles. They were military grade; a graduation gift from Madame B. Peering through them, she could see a man fitting Masoud's description sitting out in a deckchair in the desert night, with a glass of what looked like iced tea in his hand.

Still, she had to be sure. She could not afford to kill the wrong man. She had to get closer.

Gripping her knife tightly, she crouched down and ran towards the house, feeling vulnerable and exposed as she left the refuge of the rocks and ran across the wide open space.

She approached the man from behind, her footsteps silenced by the sand, the faint desert breeze carrying the sound of her rustling clothes downwind, away from the man in the deckchair.

She kept a sharp eye out for other family members or security guards who might turn up unexpectedly, but fortune seemed to be smiling on her today; it appeared that the man was home alone.

She slowed her run to a panther-like walk, her knife gripped tightly in her hand as she approached the man from behind.

He did not seem to hear her approach, and as she drew level with him, she saw why – or rather, she  _smelled_ why. What she had assumed was iced tea smelled suspiciously like alcohol. The man was drunk. Very naughty for a Muslim in Saudi Arabia.

Confident that they were alone, Natasha finally stepped forward so that she was in the man's line of vision. One long, careful look confirmed that he was indeed Abbud Masoud.

With a deep slice of the knife across his neck, Natasha killed him.

A second later, she sighed, wiping the blood off the blade of her knife with her handkerchief.

Killing Masoud had been unremarkable. It had felt exactly the same as all the other kills she had done as a Red Room Academy student. She had thought, somewhat naively perhaps, that killing for the KGB would feel different – more exciting, maybe, or more satisfying.

But no, it felt the same as ever, which is to say it did not elicit any particular emotion in her whatsoever. Killing was easy. The Red Room Academy had trained her well.

She began to walk slowly back towards where she had left her motorbike, pulling her cardigan more tightly around her as the desert breeze picked up a notch, blasting her with surprisingly cold air.

She would travel through the night, she decided. She wanted to put as much distance between herself and Masoud before his body was discovered. If all went to plan, she would already be out of the country by the time anyone noticed he was missing.

She finally reached the motorbike and pulled her helmet over her head, flipping down the visor to keep the sand and wind out of her eyes.

Kicking the motor to life, she set off at a roar, gunning it down the road and feeling a rush of adrenaline at the reckless speed. She might as well live a little, whilst the KGB were not there over her shoulder, watching her.

A small pang of sadness twinged in her chest as she thought about returning to her depressing little flat in Moscow. She had enjoyed this mission. She had enjoyed the sense of purpose it had given her. She had enjoyed the fact that it had kept her busy and allowed her to use her skills and flex those muscles that she had not had the opportunity to since graduating. Most of all, she had enjoyed the sense of freedom, however fleeting, that came with being away from watchful eyes and constant observation.

The journey back to Moscow was long and uninteresting. She camped every night, her heart feeling heavier the closer she got to her destination. She did not want to go back to a life of boredom. She did not want to spend day after day holed up in her flat with nothing to do. It was so  _dull_.

When she finally arrived back at her block of flats, she climbed the steps up to her floor two at a time, before stepping up, not to her front door, but the man opposite's.

The man answered at the first knock, as if he had been expecting her.

He stared at her for a long moment, taking in her dusty clothes and sweaty face. "What?" he said rudely.

Natasha shouldered her way past him and walked into his apartment, waltzing straight into his kitchen and pouring herself a glass of water from the tap.

The man followed her, his eyebrows raised as Natasha simply chugged the water thirstily.

"I want more jobs," said Natasha, cutting straight to the point.

She cocked her head to the side as she stared confidently at the man, trying not to let her internal panic and desperation show on her face. The truth was, she did not just  _want_ more jobs; she  _needed_ them. She needed them like she needed oxygen. She could not bear a single extra second cooped up in her tiny flat with nothing to do. She needed to keep busy, or else her mind would tear itself up with cabin-fever and frustration.

The man smiled suddenly, showing off his sharp, even teeth.

"My name is Dmitry," he said. "I am glad that you have accepted your destiny."

Natasha stayed silent as he withdrew another folder, identical to the one she had found on her bed just a week before, and gave it to her.

"Your next mission is to kidnap the children of an American diplomat," he said. "Their names are Jessica and Adam Smithson. Do you think you can do that?"

Natasha's mind floated back to St. Petersburg and how simple it had been for her to lure little Valentina Drakova into the woods behind her house. It had, literally, been child's play.

She looked up at Dmitry, smiling.

"Easy," she said.

 

* * *

 

Natasha's instructions were simple.

She was to kidnap Jessica and Adam Smithson from their home and take them to a secure location. They were 6 and 7 years old. She was not to harm the children; that was not the purpose of the mission. The purpose was simply to coerce their father. Once he complied with the KGB's demands, the children would be released and the KGB would slip away, back into the shadows.

It was a simple mission, except for one little detail: Natasha had no idea how to interact with normal children.

Natasha had not exactly had a normal childhood, and her classmates at the Red Room Academy had not been your typical definition of 'normal' either. She had no idea what normal children liked to do, what she was expected to do to keep them occupied while she looked after them at their secure location.

Kidnapping them, she was comfortable with. Making up lies to get them to follow her willingly, she was comfortable with. It was the prospect of what they would do to pass the time once they had been kidnapped that sent butterflies to Natasha's stomach.

Pushing away the uneasy feeling, she checked her bag one last time: her lock picking set, a pack of sleeping pills, some soft toys, a colouring book and some coloured pencils lay inside. She pulled on her leather jacket and stepped out of her flat, locking the door behind herself and pocketing the key.

She descended the stairs of her block of flats quickly, her rubber soled shoes making no noise on the metal stairs. She stepped outside into the cool Moscow night, letting the frigid air calm her down.

She made her way towards the diplomat's house on foot. It was not too far away from where she lived, just 30 minutes’ walk away in the suburbs of the city. She made her way down the streets, keeping her pace swift and her head bent low. She enjoyed this; the thrill of the chase, the excitement that thrummed through her veins as she went about her mission.

She was good at this. This was what she had been trained her whole life to do. It felt good to be out and doing something productive, rather than being holed up in her flat with nothing to distract her from her thoughts.

She arrived at the Smithson household just as the watch on her wrist beeped to tell her that it was 10pm.

The house was large, with a leafy garden at the front and the back. The garden contained dozens of little angel statues and several large trees that twisted up into the sky. Natasha briefly considered climbing one of these trees to enter the house through the upstairs windows, but decided against it, knowing that it would look suspicious if a passer-by happened to see her. No, she decided, it was much safer to go in through the back door.

Slipping around to the back of the house, she knelt down outside the back door and pulled her lock picking set from her bag. She remembered when she had first learned how to pick locks, all those years ago. She had been 6 years old and she had struggled with it at first.

She did not struggle anymore. Practice made perfect.

She slid the tension wrench into the bottom of the lock, jiggling it around gently until it was securely in place. Once she had done that, she slid the pick into the lock and began to probe the tumblers, closing her eyes so that she could better feel when each tumbler gave way and released the locking mechanism bit by bit.

After a couple of minutes, the final tumbler slid into place and Natasha gave a satisfied smile as the lock clicked quietly as it turned. Putting the tension wrench and pick back into her bag, she opened the door quietly and stepped inside, her rubber soled shoes making no sound on the stone floor.

She stood completely still for a moment, straining her ears to listen out for any signs of activity in the house.

The file had told her that the diplomat lived here with his two children, a guard and a nanny. The children's mother had died one year previously.

Natasha had been tasked with secretly kidnapping the children and taking them to a secure location. Once the children had been transported to this new location, another KGB agent would enter the house to talk to the diplomat. Natasha did not know exactly what the KGB wanted with the diplomat; it was not something that she needed to know in order to complete the mission and it was not her place to ask.

She had already booked a room in a hotel a short distance away. The KGB had assured her that the location was fine. They seemed confident that the diplomat would not set the police looking for his children; it was likely that they would threaten to kill the children if he did so. Natasha smiled, it was smart.

Before she could celebrate the smartness of the plan much further, however, she was jerked from her thoughts by the sudden arrival of a man in the kitchen.

It barely took Natasha a fraction of a second to take in the man's appearance and the gun in a holster on his hip. It was the guard.

Natasha was moving before the man's eyes even had a chance to widen. He took a deep breath, presumably to yell a warning to the Smithsons, but before he could let the air out of his lungs, Natasha had wrapped her arms around the man's throat, twisting her arms violently and snapping his neck. Natasha felt the man's weight increase in her arms as all the tension left his body.

After cocking her head to the side to listen and make sure that the loud snapping sound of the guard's neck had not attracted any more unwanted attention, Natasha slowly dragged the guard's body into a cupboard at the back of the kitchen.

She piled a couple of sacks of potatoes on top of his body to hide him and then quietly closed the cupboard door. It reminded her a little of the time Tatiana had stuffed the midwife's body in the cupboard in St. Anastasia's Maternity Hospital, after the unfortunate member of staff had found them searching for the hospital's front door key.

Back then, she had stood frozen a little in fear, the sound of the midwife's neck snapping having reminded her of Elena's death. Now, however, she was doing it without batting an eyelid. She was proud. It seemed she had come full circle.

She moved carefully across the kitchen, slipping through the door quietly and making her way deeper into the house. She could hear some sounds coming from a TV in one of the rooms downstairs. This was presumably the diplomat; it was too late for the children to be watching TV, they were only 6 and 7 years old, after all.

She ignored the faint sounds of the TV and made her way slowly towards the staircase. The KGB had not been able to provide her with a map of the layout of the house, but she presumed that the children's bedrooms would be upstairs.

She placed one foot on the edge of the first step and pressed down on it gently, testing its squeakiness. To her relief, the wood did not creak but, all the same, she kept to the side of the stairs the entire way up the staircase. The edges were less likely to creak. Madame B had taught her that when she was five.

She emerged at the top of the staircase, stepping out onto a landing that was dappled with light from the streetlamps outside.

She made her way slowly down the landing, keeping a vigilant eye and ear out for the diplomat or the nanny. She could hear soft breathing coming from a door on her right. The door was slightly ajar and when Natasha stepped up to the threshold to peer through the crack in the door, she could see the outlines of two little children in their beds, their blonde hair tousled on their pillows.

Natasha slipped in through the door and padded softly across the carpet towards the children, careful to avoid stepping on any of the toys that were littered across the floor in case they made a noise.

She was stood between the two beds, simply looking down at the children, when the little girl, Jessica, suddenly opened her eyes. Natasha saw her eyes widen with surprise. A surge of panic went through Natasha. What if Jessica screamed? What if she alerted her father to Natasha's presence and the police were called?

All that happened, however, was that Jessica's face broke out into a grin.

"Are you an angel?" she whispered, sounding hopeful.

Natasha was silent for a few seconds, momentarily confused, before she remembered the multitude of little angel statues that filled the garden outside. She knelt down so that she was level with Jessica and smiled softly as she ran a gentle hand through Jessica's hair.

"That's right," Natasha replied softly. "My name is Angel Natasha. I'm one of the angels that live in your garden. We come to life at night."

Her heart clenched a little when Jessica's face broke out into an expression of joy, her lips stretched wide into an excited, innocent grin.

"I knew it!" said Jessica.

Natasha hushed her, all too aware that the nanny was surely nearby. She did not want the nanny to come into the room. If she did, Natasha would have to kill her to stop her from raising the alarm, and Natasha really did not want to have to kill the nanny in front of the children. These children were innocent. They had a childhood filled with soft toys and angels, not guns and knives like when she was their age.

"Shh," she said gently. "Angels are frightened of loud noises. Our ears are very sensitive."

Jessica's eyes widened almost comically as she clamped her hands over her mouth, looking up at Natasha with pleading, apologetic eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Natasha smiled as she stroked a hand over Jessica's forehead, smoothing away her worry lines.

"It's OK," she said. "I'm a strong angel. But if you can be as quiet as possible, that would make me very happy."

Jessica smiled back at Natasha as she nodded enthusiastically.

"I'll be quiet," she promised, holding out her little finger.

It took Natasha a few moments to realise that Jessica wanted to make a 'pinkie promise', something that she had read about in a book on childhood social behaviour. Smiling softly, she wrapped her little finger around Jessica's and shook it seriously, sealing the deal.

A soft gasp behind her alerted her to Adam waking up, but to Natasha's relief he did not scream either. Jessica immediately put a finger to her lips, shushing her little brother.

"Be quiet!" she hissed. "She's an angel from the garden and loud noises hurt her ears!"

Adam's big blue eyes popped wide open as he stared at Natasha, his little mouth hanging open in awe.

"You're really an angel?" he whispered shyly, staring at Natasha's black clothes and backpack.

Natasha nodded seriously, reaching out to stroke his hair gently with one hand, the other still linked to Jessica's by her little finger.

"Do you know Mommy?" he asked quietly, sticking his thumb into his mouth and sucking on it.

Natasha hesitated slightly. The children's mother had died a year ago. They were 6 and 7 years old now, which meant that they were old enough to remember and miss her. A plan formed in her head. It was not a particularly kind plan, but she swallowed past the lump of guilt in her throat and forged ahead before she could regret it.

"Yes, I know your Mommy," she said quietly. "She wants to see you and she's in a hotel nearby. Do you want to see her?"

Both Jessica and Adam let out little gasps. Jessica's hands flew to her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. Adam simply stared at Natasha, dumbstruck. Guilt clawed at Natasha. For some reason, this was so much more difficult than the Valentina Drakova job.

"Yes," they both whispered, and it took Natasha a moment to remember that she had asked them a question.

She swallowed and tried to plaster a smile onto her face.

"OK," she whispered. "Let's get dressed. Where are your clothes kept?"

Jessica pointed to a chest of drawers pushed back against the wall and Natasha crossed the room silently, pulling out t-shirts, jumpers, jeans and socks for each of them. Tossing the clothes across the room to the children and reminding them to keep quiet as they got changed, she moved to their wardrobe and found their coats, shoes and hats.

A memory from her first day at the Red Room Academy, sitting with Elena in the 'secret room' that was actually just a ratty old wardrobe, surfaced briefly in her mind, but she pushed the thought away. She was on a job. She had to concentrate.

Once Jessica and Adam had changed into their clothes, she helped them into their shoes and coats before cocking her head to the side and listening to the house.

She could faintly hear the TV downstairs, which meant their father was probably still sat down there in the living room.

"Where's your nanny?" she asked quietly, looking down at Jessica and Adam.

"She has a poorly tummy," whispered Adam, smothering his words with a hand over his mouth so as not to hurt Natasha's supposedly sensitive angel hearing. "She's at her house, not here."

Natasha relaxed a little. The guard was dead and the nanny was away. This was good. She liked it when jobs were simple.

"OK," she whispered. "Let's go. Remember to be as quiet as you can."

Jessica and Adam nodded happily, each of them clinging onto one of Natasha's hands.

Natasha smiled down at them gently before pulling them towards the door, making sure that they did not step on any of their toys.

They stepped out into the dark landing. Natasha felt Adam squeeze her hand a little tighter and press up against her leg. Looking down, she saw that the little boy had a frightened expression on his face. It took a couple of seconds for it to dawn on her; Adam was afraid of the dark. Squeezing his hand in what she hoped was a comforting gesture, she pulled them along, eager to get them out of the house before Adam lost his nerve.

They reached the staircase.

"Stick to the sides of the steps," she whispered. "The sides make less noise than the middle."

The children nodded in understanding and followed Natasha slowly down the stairs, holding onto the banister so that they would not lose their balance.

When they reached the downstairs landing, Natasha listened carefully and realised, to her relief, that she could hear snoring coming from the living room, mixed in with the sound of the TV. Their father was asleep.

"Come on," she whispered, pulling them along the corridor and into the kitchen. Deliberately not looking in the direction of the kitchen cupboard room where the guard's body was hidden, she ushered them quietly towards the back door, pushing it open quietly.

She let out a sigh of relief as she stepped out into the cool Moscow air, closing the door quietly behind her. She saw movement in the depths of the garden and stopped dead, her heart rate kicking up a notch before the figure stepped forward and revealed himself to be Dmitry, the KGB agent who lived in the flat opposite Natasha's.

Ah, of course. Dmitry must be the KGB agent tasked with 'talking to' the diplomat whilst Natasha whisked the children away as bargaining chips.

Jessica flinched back when she saw the man standing silently in their back garden.

Natasha squeezed her hand reassuringly as she pulled the children away from Dmitry towards the side of the house, walking them towards the pavement.

"He's another angel," Natasha explained quietly. "He's going to look after your house while we go to see your Mommy."

Jessica seemed to believe her, her hand relaxing in Natasha's.

Guilt washed over Natasha once more. She had no idea what she was going to do when they arrived at the hotel room. Obviously, the children's mother would not be there. They would be devastated. Natasha swallowed uneasily, feeling out of her depth for the time that night.

They walked in silence down the quiet streets. The children's hands were warm in hers and Natasha smiled at the gentle weight of them.

All too soon, they arrived at the hotel. Natasha ushered them in through a side entrance and led them to the room she had booked for the night, room 15.

The children were practically bouncing around her as she pulled out the key, although keeping completely silent so as not to 'hurt' Natasha's ears.

Natasha unlocked the door and flung it open, taking a deep breath as the children ran into the room excitedly. She followed them silently, locking the door behind her and taking a moment to simply close her eyes and breathe, knowing that when she opened them, all she would see would be the heartbreak and disappointment in their eyes.

"Where's Mommy?" asked Adam, wondering back to Natasha and tugging her by the hand to show her the empty hotel room.

Natasha stared around the room, trying to imagine how it must feel to have a family, to have a parent who loved you and who you were so looking forward to seeing after so much time apart.

Natasha had had loving parents, once. She knew that they had looked after her until the age of three, before they had been killed in the car accident, but she could not remember them. What would she say to them, if they miraculously came back to life now? What would they think of her?

She shook her head, forcing herself to focus on Jessica and Adam. They looked hurt and confused. Natasha's heart sank as tears began to form in Jessica's eyes.

"Does Mommy not love us anymore?" she whimpered, her bottom lip wobbling violently as she tried her hardest not to make any noise.

Natasha knelt down, guilt tearing at her insides as she ran a hand through Jessica's hair.

"Hey," she said softly. "Your Mommy loves you very much. She talks about you all the time. Let me just call Heaven and find out what's going on."

She pulled out her phone, pretending to dial a number and putting it to her ear. Jessica and Adam stared at her with wide eyes, their mouths slightly open as they gaped at her.

Natasha gave them an encouraging smile and then turned her attention to the phone pressed against her ear, pretending as though someone had just picked up on the other side.

"Hello," she said, in her best telephone voice. "It's Angel Natasha. Do you know where Jessica and Adam's Mommy is?"

Jessica and Adam clung to her knees, looking at her with awed expressions on their faces.

"Oh. Oh OK, that sounds like a very important job," continued Natasha, pausing between each phrase so that it sounded as if she was having a real conversation. "I suppose that's acceptable then. Yes, I'm sure they'll understand. I will tell them. OK, thank you. Bye bye."

She withdrew her phone from her ear and pretended to terminate the call before turning to the children in front of her and giving them a gentle smile.

"Your Mommy had to leave just before we arrived," she said softly. "There was an emergency in Heaven and only a  _very_ nice angel, like your Mommy, could help. She says she's very sorry that she couldn't see you, but she hopes you're not too sad and she loves you very, very much."

A lump suddenly formed in her throat and she had to swallow several times to get rid of it, cursing internally for her sudden, unexpected fit of emotion. She should not be getting emotional on a mission. She was supposed to be a professional. She was supposed to have been raised to be better than to act like this.

Thankfully, neither of the children had apparently noticed her suddenly dewy eyes, seemingly too shocked and awestruck by what Natasha had just told them.

"So Heaven is  _real_?" asked Jessica, her blue eyes almost bugging out of her head in amazement.

Natasha paused before nodding. Being an atheist, she did not particularly want to preach religion, but it was the line she had gone with, so she supposed she had to go along with it now.

"Yes," she replied. "Nice people go there, like your Mommy. It's a safe, warm place, with lots of nice things to do so you never get bored."

The children were silent for a couple of minutes, digesting this momentous news.

"What was the emergency that Mommy had to fix in Heaven?" asked Adam, sucking on his thumb once again.

Natasha panicked for a moment, having not thought too deeply about her story, before just saying the first thing that came into her head.

"A little boy without a Mommy had just arrived in Heaven and he was scared," she lied. "Your Mommy had to go back to make sure he was OK. Heaven can be a very scary place when you first arrive."

They lapsed into silence once more, but this time the atmosphere was much calmer, even meditative.

"The little boy needed Mommy more than us," Jessica said eventually. "So I guess it's OK."

Natasha nodded, thankful that the children appeared to have accepted her story and did not seem to be too upset by the fact that their mother was not here.

"That's very mature of you, Jessica," Natasha praised quietly, before reaching hesitantly into her bag and withdrawing the toys, colouring book and pencils. "Do you guys want to play?"

The children's faces lit up as she withdrew the items. They jumped onto the hotel bed and patted the mattress eagerly, urging her to join them.

Natasha smiled with relief as Adam reached for the fluffy animal toys and Jessica grabbed the colouring book and pencils. Natasha had spent ages picking them out in a toy shop earlier in the day, agonising over what to get them. It seemed she had chosen well.

She sat in silence for a long while, just watching them play. Adam played with the toy animals, manoeuvring them gently around the bed and muttering some kind of adventure-fuelled narrative under his breath. Jessica had stretched out onto her stomach, her tongue sticking out between her teeth as she drew.

Natasha leaned back on the bed and smiled, closing her eyes to listen to the sound of Jessica's pencils scribbling on the paper and Adam's little whispers and shuffles as he played with the toys.

This was nice.

It was so different to any other job she had been on, so different to what she had been trained for, yet for some reason, she was enjoying this immensely. This was calming and gentle and peaceful and just...  _nice_. There was no other word for it. And even though she had been trained to dismiss the value of sentimentality, Natasha found that she loved this quiet, innocent domesticity.

"Angel Natasha," whispered Jessica.

Natasha opened her eyes to find that the little girl had crawled to lie down next to her. She smiled as she ran a gentle hand through Jessica's blonde curls.

"Yes, sweetie?" she prompted.

Instead of answering, Jessica simply held up the drawing that she had been working on so diligently. Natasha sat up to look at it, brushing her hair out of her eyes to examine it properly.

Jessica had ignored the pages of carefully drawn lines that she was supposed to draw in, flicking instead to the very back of the book where the paper was blank. On this blank sheet, she had drawn two figures.

One of them was clearly supposed to be Natasha; the person had curly red hair, big green blobs for eyes and was dressed in the exact same black clothes that Natasha was currently wearing. Out of her back sprouted large, beautiful wings, dazzling bright as denoted by the lines coming off the wings and reaching out and up towards the top of the page.

Next to her was another angel. This one had blonde curly hair that was similar to Jessica and Adam's, and Natasha realised with a pang that this was almost certainly their mother.

The angels were sitting on a cloud and appeared to be having some kind of tea party, with sandwiches and cake and cups scattered all around them.

Natasha spent a long while just staring at the level of detail that Jessica had poured into the drawing. There was emotion here; longing and peace and above all  _love_. There was so much love on the page – in the way Jessica had drawn her mother and how she had carefully shaded each feather on her wings – that it radiated off the page in waves and actually made Natasha draw in a single, quiet gasp.

"Is this me and your Mommy?" she asked, suddenly finding a lump in her throat that definitely had not been there a moment ago.

Jessica nodded in confirmation, smiling shyly.

"Yes. You're in Heaven," she replied, keeping her voice quiet so as not to hurt Natasha's angel ears.

Natasha nodded tightly, handing the picture back to Jessica and giving her a watery smile that crumbled slightly around the edges.

"It's beautiful," she said stiffly, before falling silent, not trusting herself to speak because suddenly, despite her outwardly calm demeanour, she was  _raging_ on the inside.

She did not expect the wall of rage to hit her, but it did, _by God_ it did.

Suddenly, all she could think about was the fact that this little family scene was, for her, impossible. She had been sterilised. She had been sterilised against her will. She would never have children. She would never get to play with soft toy animals with a son or enjoy drawing and colouring in with a daughter. She would never get to hold a child's hand – her child's hand – as she walked them down the street, perhaps on their first day of school.

She would never get this gentle, domestic bliss; Madame B had taken it from her when she had graduated from the Red Room Academy. Natasha had taken it from  _herself_ when she had taken the decision to kill James.

And all of a sudden, all the carefully constructed walls in her mind crumbled. She had been carefully avoiding thinking of James. It hurt too much – the pain, the loss, the guilt. She had shut away those feelings and locked them away into a quiet corner of her mind, trying desperately to forget, but it was hopeless. James was bursting through her subconscious, the guilt of his murder eating away at her like a virus, silent and resilient.

She could not have children. And that  _hurt_ , that hurt more than she could ever have imagined. The choice had been ripped away from her when they had sterilised her. And now she could never have such moments with children like Jessica and Adam, peaceful and innocent and sweet. Yet she deserved it, she deserved it right down to the bones, because she was a monster. She had killed James, the closest thing she had ever had to a parent. She did not deserve to be a parent herself. But  _damn_ , it was painful.

She did not realise that she was trembling until she felt Jessica's hand touching her arm, small and gentle and cautious.

"Angel Natasha," she whispered. "Are you OK?"

Natasha gulped a couple of times, trying to calm herself down and swallow the cries that wanted to claw their way out of her throat. Before she could answer, however, a sharp knock came from the door and a moment later, a man who she did not recognise opened the door and stepped into the hotel room.

"The diplomat has agreed to our demands. I'll take the children home now," he said.

Natasha stared at him blankly for a moment, before pulling herself together and nodding. She picked up her bag and slung it over her back, giving Jessica and Adam a quick smile as she got up off the bed.

"This man is another angel," she said quietly. "He'll take you home now."

The children looked surprised but nodded all the same. Natasha found herself a little envious of them. She could not remember a time when she had had their innocence, so trusting and sure that no one would want to do them harm. The girls at the Red Room Academy lost their innocence young.

Giving them both a gentle kiss on the forehead, she walked quickly out of the room, sliding past the other KGB agent without even looking at him.

Her heart was hammering in her chest as she walked down the hotel corridor and exited the building. The anger and unhappiness that had bubbled to the surface in the hotel room were still present, thoughts of self-loathing and general rage swirling inside herself as she made her way blindly back in the direction of her flat.

By the time she reached her front door, she was emotionally exhausted. She felt ready to climb into bed and sleep for days. A deep, throbbing headache was starting up in her temples, sending pain shooting through her body as she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to block out the emotional anguish of her sterilisation, James' death, the unfairness of her life and everything else that she had been trying so hard to bury deep in the recesses of her mind.

She needed to make better use of her marble trick, she decided, as she dug around in her pocket for the key for her flat. When she was marble, she did not think. When she was marble, things were easy. She had almost fallen apart today on the mission. She had got too emotional. She could not afford to be distracted by emotion whilst on a mission; the results could be deadly. In the future, she would have to be more careful and use the marble trick as soon as she felt any emotions creeping in whilst on a mission.

She finally found her key and pulled it out, unlocking the front door and practically falling through it in her exhaustion.

Paper crumpled under her feet. After locking the door, she picked up the envelope and opened it, quickly scanning through the paper enclosed.

It was a bank statement. She had been paid, presumably for the Abbud Masoud assassination job. She stared hard at the figure in her account. It was more generous than she had been expecting, but then, she supposed the KGB must have a lot of money. She smiled briefly with relief; money had been getting tight, it was nice to now be earning.

Tossing the bank statement onto her kitchen table, she stumbled into her bedroom, not bothering to strip out of her clothes and simply crawling underneath the covers instead, falling asleep almost instantly.

She dreamed of children's laughter.

 

* * *

 

For the next couple of months, the KGB sent her on a variety of different missions within Russia.

She completed them all successfully and the amount in her bank account continued to grow accordingly with every mission. Natasha found herself enjoying her job. She was good at it and her superior officer, Dmitry, seemed impressed by her aptitude.

However, she was still quietly yearning for another chance to get to escape the country and pretend to be free whilst exploring the world, like she had done on her very first mission to kill Abbud Masoud.

That opportunity came a couple of months later, when Dmitry dropped off yet another folder in Natasha's flat.

Natasha woke up and walked sleepily to her kitchen table to find her folder there. She ignored it at first, focusing on pouring out some cereal and a cup of coffee, before eventually opening the folder and tipping out the sheet of paper inside.

Her heart skipped a beat and she slowly put down her cup of coffee as she stared at three words that were typed in bold at the top of the sheet of paper.

**Location: Paris, France.**

Natasha felt a grin spread slowly across her face as she allowed this to gradually sink in. She was finally getting to go on another international mission. She would finally be able to see a little more of the world. She could pretend to be free. Perhaps she could pretend to be a tourist going on a romantic holiday for one. Her mind buzzed with excitement as she read through the rest of the mission brief.

The mission itself seemed rather simple. She was to take a USB stick that was loaded with a Trojan horse and insert it into a port in a server room in a French government building. The Trojan horse would then presumably activate, giving the KGB access to all of the French government's files.

Exactly why the KGB was so interested in the French government, Natasha did not know, nor did she particularly care. It was not her job to ask questions. Her job was to follow orders. She was good at her job.

She read carefully through the rest of the mission brief, munching on her cereal as she committed it to memory. Her target was the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Paris. She was to be inconspicuous. Deaths and fighting were to be avoided at all costs. A detailed map of the inside of the building was included in her folder, as was the USB stick that she was to use.

She thumbed the USB stick pensively, thinking how strange it was that such a small, innocent-looking thing had the potential to be so dangerous. She smiled as she finished her cup of coffee; the same could be said about her.

 

* * *

 

She arrived in Paris the following morning.

Dmitry had popped around to give her her plane tickets shortly after she had finished her breakfast, also handing her a fake ID that he assured her would get her into the building under the premise of being a temporary administrative assistant.

Natasha had been slightly disappointed when he had given her the plane tickets; she had been looking forward to riding her motorbike across Europe and camping during the nights, as she had done for the Masoud mission.

She had soon cheered up, however, when she had seen that her return ticket was not until two days after she arrived. This meant that if she managed to complete the mission on the first day, she would be able to spend the entire second day indulging in some sightseeing or wandering off to explore the French countryside or whatever she wanted.

Natasha smiled sweetly at the immigration official as she handed over her fake passport. The man stamped the page and handed it back to her, barely glancing at it as he waved her through with a shy smile.

She hurried from the airport quickly. She did not have a suitcase; everything she should need was packed into her backpack: the USB stick, money, and a change of clothes. The clothes were not her usual style at all – a cute chequered dress that revealed her cleavage and showed off her shapely legs – but they were a necessary part of the mission. She had to look unthreatening, and if she was dressed ready to flirt her way past any problems, that was an added bonus.

She took a taxi directly from the airport to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, stripping off and getting changed in the back of the taxi, not thinking much of it until the taxi swerved suddenly to avoid crashing into another car that the driver had not noticed.

Natasha looked up in alarm, before narrowing her eyes when she saw the taxi driver peeking at her through the rear-view mirror.

"Eyes on the road," she said crisply, in perfect French, allowing a little of Madame B's icy tone to slip into the short sentence.

The tone clearly had the intended effect, as the driver visibly gulped as he snapped his attention back to the road, his posture suddenly rigid as he gripped the steering wheel tightly.

Natasha finished changing into her new outfit, slipping the fake ID around her neck and the USB stick into her bra, as the driver pulled up to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building.

"Perfect timing," she said smoothly, ignoring the awkward expression on the driver's beetroot red face as she handed over the fare and slipped out of the back of the taxi.

She fixed a smile onto her face and walked confidently towards the building. A lot of the art of deception came down to confidence. If you acted confidently in whatever role you were assigned, very few people would have the inclination or the courage to question it. People tended to accept what they saw at face value. It was a weakness, and it was one that she had been taught from an early age to exploit.

She walked straight through the front doors and was making her way across the foyer towards the corridor that led to the back of the building, when a voice called out to her, demanding her attention.

"Excuse me, Miss! May I ask what you're doing?"

Natasha fixed a smile on her face as she turned around to face the man who had spoken. She found herself face to face with a bald, burly security guard who was eyeing her suspiciously. Natasha dragged her eyes over the security guard's uniform, catching sight of his name badge – Pierre – before looking back up to his eyes.

"Oh, of course! I'm sorry, Pierre," she gushed, sounding just the right amount of flustered without overdoing it. "I'm a temporary admin assistant and I was told there was some work for me to help out with in this department today."

She tapped her ID card bearing the government insignia, holding it up to her face and smiling so that Pierre could see that the photograph on the ID card was indeed her.

Seeing this, Pierre visibly relaxed, smiling back at her rather sheepishly.

"Ah OK, that's fine then," he said. "Sorry about that. I was just told to be extra careful today. The intelligence service got wind that the Russians may be trying to infiltrate one of the government buildings today, for some reason."

He added the last bit in a conspiratorial whisper, obviously trying to impress Natasha by disclosing this classified information.

Natasha let her eyes go wide as she gasped dramatically, holding onto Pierre's arm in mock shock.

"Russian spies, surely not?" she gasped, earning a laugh and a nod from the guard who was obviously enjoying having the attention of such a pretty young woman. Natasha was suddenly extremely grateful that she had been taught French from such a young age, which meant that her French had no trace of her Russian accent. "Where did you hear that?"

Pierre gave her a wink as he patted her hand with his own, leaning in close to reply.

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," he whispered exaggeratedly.

Natasha slapped his hand away playfully as she laughed, leaning forward to reveal just a little of her cleavage as she did so. If they were suspicious that a KGB agent would try to enter the building, it was more important than ever that she came across as non-threatening, and if that meant coming across as simply a slightly stupid, flirtatious admin girl, then so be it.

"Look out for young men in dark coats and sunglasses," she said seriously, before giving Pierre a little wink, causing him to blush as he smiled back. "Have a nice day!"

Pierre smiled and waved as Natasha walked away. She kept her smile firmly in place as she crossed the foyer and entered the corridor she had been walking towards in the first place when Pierre had accosted her.

She walked quickly down the marble-floored corridor, smiling politely at people as she passed. It did not take her long to locate the server room deep in the bowels of the building; she had memorised the floor plan, after all.

What she had not been expecting, however, was the possibility that it may be guarded. As she rounded the corner, she instantly saw the man standing outside the door – or more importantly, the gun in his holster.

Without breaking her pace, she continued on her way down the corridor, smiling briefly at the guard as she walked straight past him and around the other corner. She continued walking to the nearest women's toilet, so as not to arouse suspicion, and then let out a frustrated sigh as finally she locked the door behind her and slammed her head back against the wood.

Who  _guarded_ a server room?

Well, the French government, obviously. They clearly had something on their servers that they were keen to keep secret, which was probably exactly why the KGB was so keen to find out what it was.

She closed her eyes as she breathed deeply through her nose.

This was just a little setback. She could do this.

What she needed was a distraction.

According to Pierre, the French government knew that a KGB agent was going to try to target one of their buildings today. What they did not seem to know was which building, for what purpose or who the agent was. Natasha hummed thoughtfully. This extra vigilance could work to her advantage.

There was a thin line between heightened vigilance and panic, after all.

Natasha smiled as a plan blossomed in her mind. She sent a silent thank you out to Tatiana, wherever she might be right now, for helping her to brush up on her strategising skills during their final year at the Red Room Academy.

Natasha flushed the toilet, despite not having used it (it was wise to take every step to avoid suspicion when suspicion was so thick in the air), and stepped out of the toilet, making her way towards a stairwell that would carry her voice well.

Looking around to check that there were no security cameras or people in her immediate vicinity, she took a deep breath and shouted into the stairwell as loudly as she could.

"A man with a gun! A man with a gun!"

As she had expected, the results were instantaneous. Panicked shouting came down the staircase as hordes of men and women came pouring out of their offices and running down the steps. Natasha stepped back, pressing herself against the wall as the screaming crowd ran past her. Another woman started shouting Natasha's warning of a man with a gun, her tone bordering on hysterical. A fire alarm started going off, no doubt set off by one of the panicked members of the crowd, and all of a sudden, the sound in the stairwell tripled in loudness as the crowd swelled.

Natasha wriggled out of the stairwell, stepping out into the corridor just in time to see the guard from the server running past to investigate what was going on. The hysterical woman grabbed him, pointing up the stairs.

"There's a man with a gun! He's going to kill us all!"

The security guard immediately pushed past the woman and started heading up the stairs in the direction the woman had pointed.

Natasha smiled. People were so suggestible when they were panicked. No doubt the woman thought, in her own frightened mind, that she had seen 'the man with the gun' with her own two eyes.

She slipped back towards the server room, checking and finding to her relief that there were no security cameras in this part of the building. Taking her lock picking set from her pocket, she quickly unlocked the door, stepping inside and running to the back of the room where she had been told the ports for the USB were located.

Skidding to a halt in front of the ports, she crouched down, pulling the USB stick from her bra and inserting it into one of the lowest ports that was hidden from view by a bunch of wires. The USB slid in with a quiet click. Natasha moved the wires so that they hid the USB stick from view and straightened up, before heading quickly towards the exit.

The building was being evacuated. She had to get out of there fast.

She exited the server room and jogged along the corridor back towards the foyer and exit. She rounded the corner in a hurry, before running straight into Pierre, who was scouting the area looking for any stragglers.

"Pierre!" cried Natasha, before he could speak. "I got lost! Please, get me out of here..."

Pierre nodded instantly, taking her by the hand and leading the way to the exit.

As they ran through the foyer, Natasha saw a man in dark glasses being restrained on the floor by a group of security guards. Her gaze paused on the man momentarily; the poor man had simply been wearing the wrong clothes in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Pierre dragged her past the man and out of the door, where employees were milling around in confusion and panic.

"Thank you, Pierre," said Natasha, gripping his hand tightly and dropping a kiss onto it. "You saved me."

Pierre gave her a warm smile and a wink, before jogging back into the building to look for any other stragglers.

Natasha spared the building one final glance before turning on her heel and melting away into the crowd, a smile spreading slowly across her face.

She still had one and a half days left in Paris until her flight, and she had heard that the Louvre was sublime.

 

* * *

 

There was something special about brown eyes.

Perhaps it was something to do with the fact that both Elena and James had had brown eyes that led Natasha to attach some kind of sentimentality or meaning to them, but the fact of the matter was, for whatever reason, brown eyes made her pause.

She only realised this during a mission to assassinate an MI6 agent living in Moscow.

The agent in question actually lived not too far away from Natasha, just 30 minutes away on foot, which came as a surprise to Natasha.

It must have come as a surprise to the KGB as well, and it seemed that the KGB did not like the fact that an enemy spy was living right under their very noses. That was the only reason Natasha could think of to explain why they had ordered her to kill the agent, rather than simply keeping an eye on her activities and sabotaging her efforts where necessary.

Natasha had read through the file that had been left on her kitchen table with interest that morning, sipping her orange juice as she went through the instructions she had been given.

She was to kill the agent in such a way that would send a clear message to MI6 that they were not welcome in the country.

Natasha had thought back to when she had killed little Valentina Drakova, cutting out the girl's tongue to represent her father sharing KGB secrets. Perhaps she should do something similar for this job.

That was this morning. Now, she was lurking outside the woman's house in the darkness, waiting for her to return from her jog.

She did not have to wait long. After just 15 minutes, Natasha heard the steady approach of footsteps and the slight panting of breath. She stilled in her position in the bushes in the woman's garden, peering out between the leaves to watch as the woman approached.

The MI6 agent had shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes. Natasha did not know the agent's name; the KGB had not given it to her and Natasha had not asked. The Brit was slightly shorter than Natasha and had a slim physique. She looked petite and non-threatening, but Natasha knew better than anyone that looks could be deceiving.

She could not afford to underestimate this woman.

Clutching the knife slightly harder in her right hand, she took a deep breath, waiting for the woman to pass her before jumping out from behind the bush and wrapping an arm tightly around her, clamping a hand over her mouth to smother her screams as she wrestled the smaller woman to the ground.

It did not take long for Natasha to overpower her. She put up an impressive fight, but Natasha was stronger, more ruthless and more experienced. Natasha had been trained to do this from the age of 5; there were very few people who could beat her in a fight.

Straddling the woman's chest, keeping one hand firmly over the woman's mouth, she brought the knife to the woman's eyes... and stopped.

She had intended to stab her through the eyes. It would kill her instantly and send a message to MI6 that the KGB did not appreciate their spying. But when she looked down into the woman's eyes, she paused.

Because this woman had brown eyes.

Brown eyes, like James and Elena; the only two friends she had ever had, the only two people who she had ever loved.

It was stupid and sentimental and weak, but for a long moment, she simply stopped, allowing herself to drink in the sight of this nameless woman's brown eyes and imagine that they were James' or Elena's.

She remembered those beautiful memories. Strawberries on hot summer days. Daffodils from James and poppies from Elena. Whispered secrets and promises and countless laughs. She allowed herself to drown in it, just for a moment, because there really was something special about brown eyes.

Underneath her, the MI6 agent noticed her hesitation and bit down on her hand, causing Natasha to let go with a gasp of pain as the woman let out a scream.

The moment passed, the illusion was shattered. These brown eyes did not belong to James. They did not belong to Elena. They belonged to a nameless woman who was just another mission.

Natasha pushed away memories of James and Elena, hardening her heart as she plunged the knife down directly into the woman's left eye.

The woman's scream was cut off instantly as the blade pierced her brain, killing her immediately and sending a flood a hot, wet blood spurting out over Natasha's hands.

She withdrew the knife and plunged it back into the right eye this time, watching with grim satisfaction as she pulled the blade back to examine the woman's ruined eyeballs.

Reaching down and roughly slicing open the woman's t-shirt, she quickly carved two words in English into the woman's chest, before getting up, stuffing the knife into her backpack and making for her flat at a jog through the quiet backroads.

Her mind was blank as she slowly made her way back to her flat. It took longer than usual, owing to the fact that she was making sure not to be seen by any passers-by. She had wiped the blood of her hands using a towel in her bag so that she looked outwardly normal at a distance, but close up, the spatters of blood that she had not yet had the opportunity to wipe away were more obvious, and she stank of blood.

She diligently avoided all human contact on her journey home, her mind peaceful after yet another successful mission.

When she finally arrived back in her flat, she headed straight for the shower, letting the hot water slowly run from red to clear as all traces of the woman's assassination were rinsed down the drain. She stayed in the shower for longer than was strictly necessary, allowing her fingertips to prune as she simply enjoyed the warmth and steady pressure of the water.

Eventually, though, the water ran cold, so she stepped out of the shower and into a fluffy bathrobe that she had bought as a treat from herself using some of last month's wages. Her bank account now contained a handsome sum. The KGB paid well, and she was rapidly becoming their go-to agent for especially dark, complicated or important missions.

The result was that she was becoming a wealthy woman. Natasha was considering moving to a nicer apartment. That would be nice.

As she walked back into her kitchen and shredded the mission instructions, she thought back to what she had carved into the MI6 agent's chest. She had done it just to make sure that her message was understood, in case MI6 missed the poetic meaning behind their agent being stabbed in the eyes.

The words had been simple and to-the-point:

MI6 – LEAVE.

 

* * *

 

It was shortly after the MI6 agent's successful assassination that Dmitry paid her a visit in her apartment.

Despite the fact that they lived opposite each other and even occasionally went on missions together, Natasha rarely saw her neighbour. When he dropped off mission instructions, he would simply walk in, dump the file on her kitchen table and leave. Added to that, neither of them were particularly sociable people.

This was why, when Dmitry knocked on her door, Natasha knew that something was up.

"What's wrong?" she asked without preamble as Dmitry walked straight past her and sat down at her kitchen table.

The action made Natasha remember the time she had done that in his flat, when she had returned from her first ever mission and demanded to be given more jobs. That felt so very long ago now.

"Nothing," Dmitry replied bluntly, also not bothering with small talk or niceties. "I bring you good news, actually."

Natasha raised her eyebrows, waiting silently for Dmitry to continue. Dmitry had never brought her good news before. In fact, Dmitry had never brought her any kind of news. He dropped off mission instructions and sometimes worked with her on missions. That was all. He did not  _bring news_.

"I picked up some chatter in the international intelligence community recently," he said. "Turns out that people have noticed your good work. You've earned yourself a reputation."

Natasha cocked her head to the side, frowning slightly.

"What kind of reputation?" she asked.

Dmitry laughed humourlessly, snorting a little as he did so. Natasha thought he sounded like a pig.

"You're feared," smirked Dmitry, before pausing, a thoughtful look coming over his face. "You've even earned yourself a nickname."

This time, it was Natasha's time to laugh, because  _really_? Did spies really get given nicknames in real life? It sounded like it had been torn straight from a novel.

"What's my nickname?" she asked, deciding to humour Dmitry and satisfy her own piqued curiosity.

Dmitry stood up from the table, brushing down his jeans and chuckling as he started walking towards Natasha's front door.

For a moment, Natasha thought he was going to leave without replying, but at the last second, he turned back and spoke, his eyes crinkled with a mixture of amusement and respect.

"The Black Widow," he said simply, before leaving and slamming the door behind himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR NOTE: I hope you're enjoying this new era in Natasha's life! It's rather different from school, isn't it? Thank you to everyone who is following this story and has left comments and kudos, it's great to know that you're enjoying the story :)
> 
> 100K WORDS: Ahh, this chapter brings the word count to over 100k words! If this fic were a person, I'd bake it a birthday cake <3
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will jump forward 4 years and will be titled "The Ivanov Job". It will be about the first ever mission that Natasha fails. What will make her slip up? And how will the KGB react?


	16. The Ivanov Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Sexual content, including non-consensual sexual content. If you do not want to read this chapter, I recommend going to the End Note at the bottom of the page, where I will summarise, non-explicitly, the important things that have happened so that you do not get confused reading future chapters.
> 
> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/156553147441/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)

2007 – Aged 23

 

* * *

 

By the time Natasha was given the Ivanov job, she had completed over 400 missions and killed over 100 people in various countries all around the world.

She had travelled far and wide, completing missions in Russia, China, the US, the UK, Canada, Saudi Arabia, Mexico, Sweden, Italy and France. She enjoyed her job. The missions gave her a sense of purpose and when she completed them successfully, the heady buzz of satisfaction would last for days.

She especially enjoyed completing missions in far-flung countries. When she was abroad, she got to experience snatches of faux-freedom as she briefly escaped from the watchful eyes of the KGB. It was a good feeling. International missions were her favourite.

Working for the KGB was interesting. They sent her on a wide variety of missions. She had killed criminals, spies, politicians, diplomats and business people. She had also stolen hordes of information, usually from other intelligence and security services, such as MI6 and SHIELD.

Recently, she had been teamed up with Tatiana to go on a mission with her. Natasha had found herself overjoyed to see her old classmate. They had a strong sense of camaraderie that Natasha simply had not found with any of her other colleagues. They had completed the mission in double-quick time and, afterwards, had enjoyed some time together in Tatiana's flat in Kiev, Ukraine.

Kiev was nice. There were beautiful, gold-topped cathedrals that reminded her of the time they had gone to the Grand Kremlin Palace to deliver the letter to President Gorbachev. She and Tatiana had reminisced about old missions that they had completed as students and talked about their old classmates. Tatiana revealed that the two of them were the only ones from their year to graduate from the Red Room Academy. The others had died during Madame B's gruelling final year examinations.

They had shared laughs and memories. Tatiana seemed much more talkative and relaxed than she had been whilst at the Red Room Academy. Perhaps it was to do with the fact that they no longer had Madame B breathing down their necks. Perhaps she, like Natasha, had simply embraced her destiny and accepted her role as a KGB agent, deciding to relax a little and enjoy life the best she could under the circumstances.

Tatiana had reminded Natasha that she still owed her a debt, from the time that Natasha had saved her from the fire at St. Anastasia's Maternity Hospital, and Natasha had promised that she would come to her if she ever needed help.

They had parted on good terms, and Natasha had ridden her motorbike all the way back to her own flat in Moscow.

She had moved houses several times in the last few years. She now lived in a much nicer flat than what she had started off in. Sunshine flooded in through the tall windows in the mornings and rustic paintings adorned the walls. She had bought herself shelves upon shelves of books in a wide variety of genres: poetry, crime novels, history books and books of the most beautiful photography.

Natasha was not an extravagant person, but she allowed herself the luxury of a good book collection. Goodness knows she could afford it; the KGB paid her well and often gave her bonuses as a reward for going such a good and loyal agent.

Natasha was proud of her work. In four whole years, she had never failed a mission.

That was what made the Ivanov job so shocking.

The Ivanov job was the first one that she failed.

 

* * *

 

Natasha had been having a good day.

She was curled up on her sofa, sipping a cup of tea and reading the novel 1984 by George Orwell, when a knock from the door jerked her out of her head.

She folded down the corner of the page and placed the book on her coffee table, before padding over to the front door and opening it.

She smiled when she saw that it was Dmitry, stepping back and gesturing for him to come inside. She and Dmitry were not friends, as such, but they had built up a rapport over the last four years and held a mutual respect for one another.

"Do you have another mission for me?" she asked, as she led the way into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Dmitry sat down heavily on a kitchen chair, closing his eyes briefly and rubbing a hand over his face. Dmitry was in the middle of some big counter-espionage job at the moment. Judging by the slight tremor of his hand and the dark circles under his eyes, it was proving stressful. Natasha poured him a mug of green tea.

"Yes," he sighed, pulling an envelope out of his jacket and sliding it across the table to her. "This one's a bit more of a long-term mission than what you're used to."

Natasha hummed with interest as she opened the envelope. Usually, her missions were one-off affairs – kill this person, steal this, put this here – so it would be interesting to do something that required a more long-term approach.

She pulled the sheet of paper out of the envelope and smoothed it out, reading the mission brief carefully.

As her eyes slid down the page, her face became more and more serious. A tight knot of apprehension formed in her stomach, causing little beads of sweat to appear on her forehead. She had to make a conscious effort to prevent her hands from shaking.

"You want me to get close to a Russian politician?" she asked, even though it was spelled out for her in black and white on the page.

Dmitry nodded, seemingly unaware of her increasing discomfort.

"Albert Ivanov, yes," he said. "There are rumours circulating that he's planning on overthrowing the President. We want you to find out if those rumours are true."

Natasha fiddled with the sheet of paper, eventually setting it down on the table top to look Dmitry directly in the eye.

"Why don't you just find the source of the rumour and ask them?" she said carefully, trying not to make it sound as if she were questioning the KGB's authority.

Dmitry sighed slightly with impatience.

"Because a secondary source isn't good enough," he snapped. "You know that. To be sure, we need to get the information out of Ivanov himself."

Natasha shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The ball of worry in her chest was growing, causing her to shake slightly with anxiety as adrenaline pulsed through her system. Suddenly, her palms were too wet and her lips were too dry.

"I just don't understand why I have to... do that," she finished weakly, gesturing and glaring at the sheet of paper lying innocently on her kitchen table.

She wished she could just tear it up and throw it in Dmitry's face. She wished she could march him to her front door and tell him to get out of her flat and out of her life. But she could not. Because the KGB owned her. She was theirs to do with as they pleased. She hated it.

Dmitry frowned, looking down at the mission brief and back up at Natasha, with a mixture of confusion and annoyance on his face.

"I don't understand," he said bluntly. "I was told that Red Room Academy girls were well-trained in the art of seduction."

Natasha gritted her teeth against the wave of anger provoked by his words. She wondered if Dmitry had any idea  _how_ they were trained; if he knew about the long hours of being forced to watch pornography, if he knew about the countless rapes that had taken place inside the Red Room Academy's walls.

It made her sick to the stomach to think about it. She swallowed drily, suddenly feeling a little nauseous.

"I've never done a mission like this before," she said eventually, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. "I just think, if this is such an important mission, that it should be given to a woman with more experience than me."

Dmitry smiled, waving his hand casually, as if doing so would wave her worries away.

"You'll be fine," he shrugged. "The KGB is fully confident in your abilities. Besides, he likes redheads, and you're the only red-haired female agent who the KGB trusts enough to give an important job like this."

Natasha sat silently for a while, fuming and not even trying to hide it.

"I'm not a prostitute," she snapped out suddenly, the aggression giving her voice an emotional edge that neither she nor Dmitry were used to. "I'm a killer, a spy. I can do better than being some old man's bed-warmer."

Dmitry rolled his eyes, clearly not understanding just how deep-seated Natasha's discomfort was.

"It's not as if you have to be his lover forever," he said, tapping his fingers impatiently on Natasha's kitchen table. "You only have to do it for as long as it takes you to get the information out of him. Go in, seduce him, make him trust you, get him to reveal whether or not there's any truth in the rumours, and then disappear."

Natasha closed her eyes, rubbing her fingertips to her temples, where she could feel a headache forming.

She could not do this. She had thought she had left behind all forced sexual liaisons when she had graduated. The thought of having to have sex still repulsed her to the core.

"I don't want to-"

Dmitry banged his hand down hard on the table, cutting off Natasha mid-sentence. Clearly, he had had enough of this conversation.

"He goes to the same bar every Friday evening," he said coldly. "The Whiskey River near the State Duma building. Be there at 9pm sharp. Wear something that's classy but shows off your body. And be forward; he's not into prudes."

Dmitry rose from the table without another word, walking silently down the hallway and out of Natasha's flat, slamming the door behind him.

Natasha sat still for a long moment, just to make sure he was gone, before picking up the mission brief and hurling it at the wall. The paper simply twirled in the air, floating down lazily to the ground.

Natasha followed its movements with her eyes, before closing them with a whimper and clenching her fists, as the first tears slid down her cheeks.

 

* * *

 

At 9pm on the dot, Natasha walked into The Whiskey River.

A few men whistled in her direction as she made her way to the bar. She smiled at them, giving them a little wink as she walked past.

She was pleased by their reaction; not because she enjoyed the attention (she did not) but because it meant that she had successfully dolled herself up to look attractive to the kind of man she was aiming to seduce that evening. She was not a particularly girly girl, so it had been some amount of trepidation that she had gone out that afternoon and bought herself a suitable outfit for the evening.

The dress was not her usual style at all. Red and clingy, the material plunged down at the front to show off her cleavage and stopped around her mid-thigh, showing off her strong, shapely legs. Her heels were black and tall, accentuating the length of her legs and adding to her sexy, mysterious appeal.

She had gone with blood red lipstick and dark eyeshadow, with just a touch of mascara to give her eyelashes a little lift.

She felt slightly as if she were wearing a costume for a play, but that actually helped to calm her nerves. She could simply pretend that this was all an act; that it was not, in fact, real.

She got to the bar and ordered herself a double shot of vodka mixed with coke. She did not want to get drunk, but she was thankful for the way her nerves melted away a little as the alcohol burned down her throat.

Stirring the remains of her drink with a straw, she surreptitiously checked her watch. It was quarter past nine. Ivanov was late.

As if on cue, the door of the bar swung open and Albert Ivanov walked in. Natasha recognised him instantly from the photograph she had been given.

He had sharp green eyes and grey hair that was cut short. He was attractive for a man in his fifties, Natasha supposed, although she had an inkling that the women who had suddenly sat up a little straighter at his entrance were perhaps more interested in his bank balance.

Before entering politics, Ivanov had been a businessman and a successful one at that. His suit alone was probably worth more than Natasha's entire wardrobe.

It was the man's demeanour, though, that caught Natasha's attention. The way he walked through the crowd without looking at anyone suggested that he did not deem them worthy of his attention.

The reaction of the crowd was also interesting; they parted easily for him, melting apart as if he had some kind of invisible force field around him that bent people to his will.

Natasha knew, however, that this was not some kind of mystical force field. This was power, pure and simple. Ivanov was powerful. He knew it, and so did the other people in the bar. No one, it seemed, wanted to get in Albert Ivanov's way.

Natasha took an instant dislike to the man.

He slid up to the bar a few seats away from Natasha. Ignoring the queue, he raised his hand and barked his order, not bothering to watch as the barman immediately complied with his request.

He tossed his money towards the barman, waving at him to keep the change, before taking a long swig from his drink, an ale of some sort.

Natasha was wondering what she should say to try to break the ice when an attractive young brunette slid into the seat between Ivanov and Natasha.

"Excuse me, sir, but are you the politician Mr. Ivanov?" she murmured, leaning forward to reveal her ample cleavage and resting a hand on his arm.

Ivanov turned to the young woman, looking her up and down before sneering. Leaning in close to the woman, he raised one hand to run it through her hair before slapping her face lightly, laughing as she flinched away.

"I could have any woman in this bar," he replied, so quietly that if Natasha had not been in the seat next to the brunette's, she would not have heard him. "Why would I degrade myself by going home with a cheap tart like you?"

The young woman visibly blanched, before shoving herself off the bar stool and storming away, almost crashing into Natasha in her haste to leave. She had tears in her eyes.

"Wow, I can _really_ see why you're so popular with the ladies."

The sarcastic remark was out of Natasha's mouth before she could stop herself.

Ivanov turned to look at her with surprise, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead as he took in the expression of disgust on Natasha's face.

"Excuse me?" he asked, more incredulous than angry.

"Never you mind," said Natasha, flipping him the middle finger.

Her response was partly an expression of the deep dislike she felt for this nasty, arrogant man, but she was also following a hunch. Thanks to the young brunette's disastrous attempt to seduce the man, it had become clear to Natasha that Ivanov would not be receptive to the usual flirting tactics. She had an inkling that he would be more inclined to pursue a disinterested woman, if only to prove right his claim that he could have any woman he wanted.

Ivanov shuffled over so that he was sitting in the recently-vacated bar stool next to Natasha.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" he asked, a hint of aggression slipping into his tone this time.

Natasha took another sip from her drink, looking at Ivanov over the top her glass. His green eyes were boring into hers, but whilst hers were the shade of warm moss, his reminded her of cold, slimy algae.

"You're Albert Ivanov," she stated coolly. "Ex-businessman, politician and giant dick weed."

Ivanov stared at her in silence for a couple of seconds, his mouth hanging open in shock. Natasha gave herself a mental high-five for literally rendering the man speechless.

Sadly though, the blissful silence did not last forever, as a few seconds later Ivanov seemed to regain control of his senses, bristling as he pulled himself to his full height on the stool and puffed out his chest, an angry pout playing at his lips.

"I don't know about giant dick weed, but giant dick, you do have a point," he purred.

Natasha drained the remainder of her drink as she rolled her eyes so hard she was surprised they did not roll right out of her head.

"Ooh, look at me, I have a giant dick!" she mimicked, throwing her hands in the air. "What are you, twelve years old?"

Ivanov growled, leaning forward into Natasha's personal space, crowding up against her in an attempt to intimidate her. For a moment, Natasha thought he was going to head-butt her, but instead, the anger disappeared from his eyes as he cocked his head to the side.

"I've never met a woman like you before," he said.

Natasha looked down at her empty glass, twirling the straw round and round with her fingers. She wondered if this man knew about the Red Room Academy. She assumed not. She had the impression that the existence of the Red Room Academy was a secret known only to a few select people within the KGB. She almost wanted to laugh, because Ivanov was right; he almost certainly had _never_ met a woman like her before. She had been kidnapped at the age of three, stripped of her humanity and turned into a killing machine. She was the perfect spy. She was not ordinary. She was a freak.

"You're probably right," was all she said out loud, before pulling herself out of her dark headspace and flashing Ivanov a bright smile. "And the way you treated that brunette was one of the grossest displays of arrogance I've ever seen, so congratulations, I've not really met a man like you either."

She made to slip out her stool and walk away, when Ivanov's hand shot out and wrapped itself around her wrist.

"That brunette was a foolish little girl," he murmured, his eyes roving over Natasha's face as if she was a puzzle he was desperate to solve. "But you, you're a real woman. You've got fire in your belly and you don't give a shit what I think of you."

He leaned in close, so that his lips were brushing up against her neck.

"I  _want_ you _._ "

The words sent a shiver of revulsion down Natasha's spine, but Ivanov clearly misinterpreted it as being a shudder of desire, because a moment later, his lips were pressed against her own and the hand around her wrist was dragging her out of her chair.

"I have a chauffeur waiting outside," he said breathlessly, his eyes roving over Natasha's curves in her red dress. "Come with me, if you think you're woman enough to handle me."

Natasha was very tempted to slap the man across his leering face and tell him to fuck off, but instead, she plastered a seductive smile onto her face and followed him.

She forced herself to focus on the foreign feeling of her heels and the unfamiliar touch of her new dress clinging to her. This was just a costume. This was just pretend. This was just another mission, like any of the hundreds she had been on before.

Except it wasn't...

Ivanov led Natasha outside to where a black Jaguar was parked at the edge of the pavement. After knocking impatiently on the window, a man hurried out of the driver's seat and unlocked the back door, holding it open for them.

Ivanov climbed in straight away, not even looking at the man. Natasha followed, but not before giving a polite smile to the chauffeur and saying a quiet "thank you".

The man gave her a grateful smile in return, before closing the door after her and hurrying back to the driver's seat. He started up the car, the deep growl of the engine vibrating through Natasha's bones as they took off in the direction of Ivanov's home.

Ivanov was pawing at Natasha, his hands running up and down her sides, slipping around to grope at her breasts and ass. Natasha kissed him enthusiastically, moaning just as she remembered from the pornographic films she had been forced to watch at the Red Room Academy.

The fake moans and gasps were clearly doing the job, as Ivanov's trousers tented as they sped along the road.

In Natasha's mind, it was if her attention were split three ways.

One part of her mind was in the back of the Jaguar, with Ivanov. This part of her mind was small; she was only giving the bare minimum of attention to her present situation, just enough to be aware of what was happening and her surroundings should they suddenly come under attack.

Another, slightly larger, part of her mind was watching one of the pornographic films that she had watched at the Red Room Academy. In this particular film, a woman was seducing a man in the back of a taxi. Natasha was copying this woman's moves mechanically, vaguely aware of how funny it was that Ivanov was reacting in just the same ways as the man in the film. People were so predictable.

The largest portion of her mind, however, was dancing. That slow, everlasting ballet routine ran on and on in her head, slowly turning her into marble, taking away her feelings, her fears, her doubts. The pain ceased to exist as she gradually became that marble ballerina; perfectly functional, non-feeling and strong.

Because, God  _damn_ , right now, she needed strength.

The small sliver of her mind in the back of the Jaguar became aware that they had stopped.

The chauffeur walked around the car and opened the back door for them, carefully keeping his expression neutral as Ivanov and Natasha tumbled out.

"Go home," Ivanov told the man without looking at him, his attention far too focused on pulling Natasha towards his house.

Natasha followed him quickly, wrapping an arm around his waist as she concentrated with all her might on selecting another porn film from her mental collection to imitate.

Imitation was easy; it required next to no thought, which was exactly why she was doing it. If she thought too much about what was going on now, she knew that she would shake apart at the seams.

_Be calm. Be marble._

Ivanov fished his key out of his pocket and opened the front door, pushing Natasha roughly over the threshold in his haste to get them inside. Natasha exhaled sharply as she bumped into the wall, clenching her fists briefly so as not to lose control and shove Ivanov's head into it.

Ivanov kicked the front door closed and grinned when he saw the wild expression on Natasha's face, mistaking her anger for red hot arousal.

"You want it so badly, don't you?" he snarled, grabbing her by the hand and practically running to the bedroom.

Natasha barely had a chance to take in Ivanov's sparsely-decorated, spotless bedroom before she pushed onto his large bed, bouncing once from the force of her fall, before suddenly Ivanov was on top of her.

His mouth went straight to her throat, tonguing and biting and licking so hard that Natasha was sure that he was going to leave marks. She tried to force her mind away from the present, tried to switch onto auto-pilot and simply let her body react without her mind being a part of it, but for some reason – for some horrifying, terrible reason – it did not work.

His hands moved to grope at her breasts, grabbing hold of them and squeezing viciously, forcing a whimper of pain from her lungs. Ivanov chuckled darkly, moving so that he was settled between her legs, the rigid length of his clothed erection rubbing on her crotch.

Natasha almost balked at the unwanted contact, trying desperately to get back into that state of mind that she had been in in the back of the Jaguar, where she had simply existed without thinking or feeling.

It was no use. Her mind was too trapped in the present, too enraptured with the horror of the moment, with Ivanov's obscene moans as he rutted against her, grabbing at her body greedily.

Natasha could feel herself panicking. Her heartbeat was accelerating. She was sweating. Ivanov noticed the change in her physiology and once again came to wrong conclusion that it was due to arousal.

"I'm going to give it to you so good and hard, little girl," he moaned in her ear.

Terror exploded in her chest. She felt as though she was suffocating underneath him. He was all over her, his body on hers, his breath in her mouth, his shoulders in her face.

Seized by blind fear, he gripped him by the shoulders and shoved him away from her.

The look of surprise on his face barely lasted a second before being replaced by rage.

"You fucking tease," he snarled, lunging back on top of her. "I'll make you enjoy this."

He pressed his lips to hers, ignoring her sounds of protest as he thrust his left hand between her legs, shoving her dress up to her hips and rubbing at the material of her knickers.

Natasha froze.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever. His hand was probing between her thighs, rubbing impatiently at the silky material of her knickers, as Natasha's breath froze in her lungs.

She was paralysed. Her mind screeched to a halt.

This could not be happening.

_This could not be happening._

Ivanov pulled her knickers down to her knees, exposing her genitals to the cool of the bedroom.

Natasha snapped.

Without thinking, she reached up and grabbed Ivanov by the neck, giving it a sharp twist.

His spine shattered.

Natasha froze as she stared up at Ivanov's head in her hands, before shoving his body away from her and scrambling backwards off the bed.

After the mad scramble and struggle, the silence in the bedroom sounded deafening. Tears prickled at her eyes as she stared down at Ivanov's lifeless body.

Choking back tears, she pulled her knickers back up and straightened her dress, running her hands through her hair as she resisted the urge to scream.

Panic was starting to set in.

She had messed up. She had failed the mission. Not only had she failed to seduce Ivanov, she had  _killed_ him. It was the worst possible outcome imaginable. What a  _mess_.

Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths to get her breathing back under control.

It was too late to change the past; what was done was done. Now, she just had to focus on damage limitation.

Ivanov was dead. There was nothing she could do about that.

Ivanov had obviously been murdered. OK, now she was getting somewhere, because there  _was_ something she could do about that.

All she had to do was make Ivanov's death look like an accident.

She scanned the room carefully, before her eyes fell on a plug socket in Ivanov's bedroom wall. It was overloaded with electronic items.

She smiled.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Natasha was back at her flat, shivering slightly as she tried to shake off the phantom feeling of Ivanov's hands all over her.

The first thing she had done upon returning home was to take a long shower in an attempt to wash away the smell of smoke and the dirty feeling of Ivanov's touches.

She had showered until the water had run cold, before putting on her pyjamas and going to the kitchen to make herself a mug of green tea.

It was supposed to help her calm down.

It was not working.

Natasha almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of knocking on her front door.

She got up hesitantly, before squaring her shoulders and walking down the short hallway, wrenching the door open to reveal Dmitry.

"What do you want?" she snapped sourly, stalking back to her kitchen, her entire body tense.

Dmitry followed her in silence, frowning at her as he observed her carefully.

"Mission report," he said, his tone low and dangerous. "Now."

Natasha blew over the top of her green tea, staring at a Parisian fridge magnet on her fridge. Paris had been nice, she though idly, it would be nice to go back there some time.

"I failed," she croaked out. "I killed him. Then I set fire to his house to hide the evidence."

She looked up at Dmitry miserably, two tears rolling down her cheeks as she begged him with her eyes.

"Please don't send me on any more missions that require seduction," she said. "Please. I just... I just can't."

Dmitry stared at her for a long while. The expression on his face was hard and unsympathetic. After almost a full minute of unbearable silence, when he finally spoke, his words were sharp and measured.

"You will go on any mission that the KGB sees fit to give you, Romanova," he said icily, giving her a long, hard stare before pulling out an envelope from his bag. "As it happens, an urgent new mission has just come through."

He slid the envelope over to Natasha. She picked it up with trembling fingers, sliding out the mission brief and sighing slightly with relief when she saw that it was a theft job.

"The mission is in Sao Paulo, Brazil," said Dmitry. "You're to break into the compound of one of their biggest drug lords, Ernesto Silva. We believe he has a very important document in a safe in his personal office. Your mission is to retrieve it."

Natasha nodded slowly, her eyes drinking in the details of the mission brief.

"It's going to be a dangerous job," continued Dmitry. "Silva has hired a bunch of ex-soldiers to be his own private security. If they see you, they'll try to kill you, so either try not to be seen or make sure that you kill them first. Do you understand, Natasha?"

Natasha almost did a double take.

_Do you understand, girls?_

It had been a favourite phrase of Madame B's.

Natasha hated it.

Swallowing past the sudden fear that the innocent question had elicited, she nodded.

"I understand," she confirmed. "I won't fail."

Dmitry stared at her again, his expression cold and hard. It was only then that Natasha noticed he had a gun in his hand. He was stroking it menacingly.

"Good," he said softly. "The KGB does not tolerate failure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SUMMARY: The KGB gives Natasha a mission to seduce a Russian politician named Albert Ivanov, who they suspect is plotting to overthrow the President. Natasha is asexual and does not want to do the mission, but nevertheless meets up with Ivanov in a bar, flirts with him and goes back to his house with him. When he tries to engage in sexual activity with her, she becomes extremely upset and kills him. She burns down Ivanov's house, with his body inside, to make his murder look like an accident, and goes home. There, her KGB handler Dmitry asks her how the mission went. She reveals that she failed and that Ivanov is now dead. Dmitry tells her that he is very displeased and that her next mission will be to steal a document from a drug lord's compound in Sao Paulo. The Sao Paulo mission is expected to a very dangerous one, but he tells her that the KGB will not accept failure, stroking his gun in a thinly veiled threat that he will not hesitate to kill her if failure becomes a regular occurrence.
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "Sao Paulo" and will look at what happens during Natasha's Sao Paulo mission. I'm VERY excited for this next chapter, because a very important new character will be introduced and a lot of exciting stuff will happen! I wish I could say more, but for now I will just squeal at you excitedly through the internet!


	17. Sao Paulo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/156816395246/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)

2007 – Aged 23

 

* * *

 

Clint Barton clutched a cup of Starbucks coffee in his hand as he wound his way through the morning rush hour crowds towards the Triskelion building.

The Triskelion was SHIELD’s headquarters, located in the heart of Washington DC.

His superior officer had told him that the head of SHIELD himself – Director Nick Fury – had requested a meeting with him, which had come somewhat as a surprise.

Clint had been working at SHIELD for 10 years now, which meant that of course he had met the Director on a handful of occasions. All those past occasions, however, had involved urgent missions that had required a whole taskforce to go in. He had been one part of a larger team, just one cog in the system.

From what he could gather, this meeting with Director Fury was to be a one-to-one affair.

Clint wondered what could be going on behind the scenes that required such an urgent meeting with him only.

He sighed, blowing over his too-hot coffee in an attempt to cool it down as he hurried towards the Triskelion.

He had recently been promoted to a Level 7 agent. That might have something to do with it, he supposed. Perhaps his new clearance level meant that he would be sent on more solo missions.

He braved a sip of his drink, cringing slightly at the bitter taste. He did not particularly like coffee, but it was a necessary evil. He was  _not_ a morning person, and when he had received the call at the crack of dawn to be at Director Fury's office by 9am at the latest, he had crashed around the house making so much noise that his wife Laura had made him promise to get some caffeine in his system before he stepped foot in the Director's office.

He smiled as he allowed his thoughts to drift to his wife. He and Laura had been high school sweethearts, getting together when they were 16 and getting married at 30. That was six years ago now, and in that time, their family had grown to include one little Barton, their son Cooper.

His family meant the world to him. Whenever he was not on a mission, he was at his little farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, enjoying the company of his wife and son in their little haven, hidden away from the world. It was perfection.

He hitched his bag more securely on his back as he took another long sip of his coffee. The bag contained everything he would need for a mission: his stealth suit, a torch, an array of tech and, of course, his trusty bow and arrows.

He was a genius with a bow. He was highly trained with a whole array of weaponry, of course, but his favourite by far was the bow.

There was something about being able to feel the tension in the bow and hear the slight twang when he let loose an arrow that aroused some primal part of his brain, that part that had evolved to love the thrill of a hunt and appreciate the beauty of an arrow sailing through the air.

The bow felt like an extension of his body, rather than a separate piece. Laura sometimes teased him, saying that it felt as if he were married to the bow as well as her. He would tease her back, saying that she was not entirely wrong, although the love he felt for the two of them was obviously of a different nature.

He drained the remainder of his coffee, grimacing at the taste, as he darted through the crowd to finally arrive at the Triskelion.

It was an impressive building, cylindrical in shape and split into three separate wings. It rose high into the Washington DC skyline, sitting on a man-made island in the middle of the Potomac River. It somehow managed to be both imposing and beautiful, the windows glittering in the morning sunlight and the smooth white stone somehow looking clean despite being in the middle of a busy city.

He dumped his empty cup in a bin and entered the building, scanning his SHIELD ID card on the card reader to allow the interior doors to give him entry. He tucked his ID into his jacket, heading towards the lifts on the far side of the atrium.

He pressed the button to summon the lift and drummed his fingers idly on his hip. He was becoming more and more curious as to what this was about. He presumed it was about a mission, but what kind of mission could be so urgent that it required an immediate start, yet not urgent enough to warrant an entire team? The whole affair confused him.

The lift dinged softly as it arrived and the lift doors slid open smoothly. He stepped neatly inside and pressed the button for Fury's floor, looking out at the Washington DC skyline as the lift swiftly rose up the Triskelion's glass wall.

He watched as a Quinjet flew in low and landed down below at the far end of the complex. As well as being highly trained in espionage and weapon use, Clint had also recently been taught how to fly the Quinjets.

He loved flying. He loved the quiet and the solitude of being up in the air, miles off the ground, away from people and hustle and bustle of daily life. It was not that he disliked people – he was quite a sociable person, in fact, once he decided that he liked someone enough to be their friend – it was just that he valued his own space as well. Being up in the air gave him time to think, away from any distractions. He did some of his best thinking when he was up in the air.

The lift doors dinged as they opened on Fury's floor. Clint walked quickly towards Fury's office, glancing down at his watch to look at the time. It was 8:45am. He grinned to himself; he had made it from the farmhouse to the Triskelion in record time.

He would have to tell Laura later; it was a little game of theirs, to guess what time one of them would arrive at some location. Whoever guessed closest to the actual time won. On this occasion, Clint had won. It was a silly little game, but it was  _their_ silly little game, and that was what made it so fun.

He knocked on Director Fury's door, opening it and stepping inside when he heard Fury’s immediate reply from inside.

"Good morning, sir," he grinned, walking up to Fury's desk and shaking the man's hand before taking a seat in front of him. "What's so urgent that you had to drag my ass in here so early? Did you just miss my buttery voice?"

Fury grunted at him in response, the corners of his mouth twitching at Clint's attempt at humour.

Clint did not consider himself a particularly funny man. However, when he was either very relaxed or very stressed, the wise-crack jokes would just slip out. In this case, he was nervous. As he had ridden up in the lift, the ball of worry in his gut had intensified. He had  _never_ had a one-to-one meeting with Fury before. That meant that something big was going down.

"Don't worry, Barton. Laura's not got any competition from me, you're all hers," Fury replied smoothly, before the smile slid off his face to be replaced by his usual serious demeanour.

Fury's natural expression was one of intense, serious concentration. It was impressively fearsome, actually. Clint sometimes wondered if Fury practiced it in the mirror. His usual outfit of a long, black leather jacket over a dark suit and his trademark black eyepatch added to the intimidating look.

If Clint were not such a brave man, he would have shrunk back in his seat. As it was, he simply stayed put. He swallowed as Fury pulled up a file on his computer and projected it onto the wall, showing Clint the mission brief.

"This is the Black Widow," said Fury.

Clint stared at the blurred photograph that was being projected onto the wall.

The woman had a slim physique, pale skin and vibrant red hair that hung past her shoulders in loose curls. The photograph was not very high quality, but even at this resolution it was obvious that the woman was attractive.

Clint could also see a hint of something brilliant lurking within her. Perhaps it was the tilt of her head in the photograph or the way she was cutting her way through the crowd with ease, perhaps it was just Clint's intuition, but something told him that this woman had a frighteningly sharp mind.

"The Black Widow," he echoed. "What's that, a codename?"

Fury huffed slightly with frustration, rubbing a hand over his beard.

"It's a nickname used by the intelligence community," Fury explained. "We don't actually know her real name, so it's the best name we have for her at the moment."

Clint hummed thoughtfully, soaking in the image of the mysterious Black Widow and storing it in his memory.

"So who is she?" he asked.

At this point, Fury pulled out two sheets of paper, passing one to Clint and then looking down at his own copy to read out the information.

"From what we can tell, she's a highly trained KGB agent who has been working for them for the past five years," said Fury. "She's skilled at shooting, hand-to-hand combat and espionage. She's been rumoured to have been involved in well over a hundred missions, including the hack at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in France four years ago, the assassination of a Chinese diplomat and the theft of data from SHIELD."

Clint's forehead scrunched up as he absorbed this new information. He had heard about the Chinese diplomat's assassination. It had been all over the news a couple of years ago.

"The Chinese diplomat," he said slowly. "Wasn't he killed by a single shot to the middle of the forehead from one mile away?"

His memory of the case was hazy, but he was fairly sure that those were the facts. He remembered that he had been reluctantly impressed by whoever had carried out the assassination. To have such perfect aim over such a long distance took serious skill. If this was indeed the work of the Black Widow, then he knew she was not an adversary to underestimate.

"That's right," confirmed Fury. "And there are dozens more suspected assassinations just like that that we suspect she's been involved in. She's dangerous. More dangerous than any other agent the KGB has produced for a long time."

Clint nodded seriously as he flicked through the file. Assassinations, terrorism, stealing sensitive information, kidnapping, torture – the Black Widow’s crimes were all written out in black and white on the page. It was a veritable list of horrors. A shiver went down his spine at the grim reading.

"What's her background?" he asked, finally tearing his eyes away from the litany of crimes on the page.

Fury drummed his fingers on the table top as he frowned.

"To be honest, we don't know that much about her past," said Fury. "She just seemed to appear out of nowhere five years ago. There were no reports of the Black Widow before then. We haven't been able to find any clues either. We cross-referenced various databases, but no one matching her description was released from prison or discharged from a psychiatric hospital at that time."

Clint frowned. For someone to just appear out of nowhere was strange. He could not help but feel that there was perhaps more to this woman's story than met the eye – he had no idea what, but the whole thing just seemed  _odd_.

"We've picked her up on CCTV in Sao Paulo," said Fury, eyeing Clint carefully. "You speak Portuguese, right?"

Clint nodded, the reason why he had been chosen for this mission suddenly becoming a lot clearer. There were not many SHIELD agents who could speak Portuguese.

"That's right," he said. "I'm not quite native-level, but I have professional proficiency."

Fury nodded, looking pleased. His thick fingers rubbed along the edge of the sheet of paper in front of him.

"The Black Widow has become too great a risk to international security to be allowed to continue to operate," he said. "I need you to go to Sao Paulo and put a stop to her."

Clint swallowed carefully, the weight of the weapons in his bag tugging at the corners of his mind.

"Put a stop to her, sir?" he repeated.

Fury nodded, his gaze hard and unflinching.

"I need you to kill her," he clarified. "It's not nice, but if we don't, she's going to kill a whole lot more innocent people. You know the deal; the lives of the many are more important than the lives of the few. We have to protect the world from threats like her."

Clint nodded wearily, reaching down to pick up his bag. He was a professional. Sometimes the job involved doing things he did not want to do, for the greater good. It was hard, but he reminded himself that his actions kept innocent people safe – people like his wife and son.

"Yes, sir," he said.

Fury visibly relaxed as Clint accepted the mission. Clint could have refused, if he had wanted to. Unless they were in the middle of a life-or-death emergency, Fury always tried to make sure that his agents were comfortable with the missions they were assigned.

"Good," he said. "Take one of the Quinjets from the bay. The location of the Sao Paulo landing site should be in the flight folder in the cockpit. Make sure you're shielded; the last thing we need is for the Brazilians to get wind that the Black Widow is in their country and freak out."

Clint nodded as he stood up and swung his bag onto his back.

"Yes, sir."

Fury rose to his feet as well, sticking out a hand and giving Clint a firm handshake.

"She's tough," warned Fury, looking seriously at Clint with his one good eye. "Be careful."

Clint grasped Fury's hand firmly as he returned the handshake. He thought about the Chinese diplomat, killed by a single shot from one whole mile away.

This woman was deadly, he realised. He had to make sure that his attention was razor sharp. He needed to come home to Laura and Cooper.

"I'll be careful, sir," he promised. "I'll be in touch once I've completed the mission."

Director Fury nodded, giving Clint a brief clap on the shoulder.

Clint turned and hurried from the office, making some quick calculations in his head.

It should take just under 10 hours to fly to Sao Paulo.

That meant he should arrive in Sao Paulo in the early evening.

 

* * *

 

It was nightfall.

Natasha crouched down amongst the thick jungle foliage, silently peering through her night-vision goggles across the valley towards Ernesto Silva's compound.

She was situated on a hill on the other side of the valley, clad completely in black. She had a wide array of weapons strapped to her person, and a light-weight paraglider on her back.

The jungle air was warm and sticky, causing her to sweat under her clothes. More than once, Natasha heard a twig snap nearby. The leaves rustled. Natasha ignored the distractions, her attention on the compound absolute. Dmitry had told her that this would be one of the most dangerous missions she had ever been on; she was not going to get herself killed by not focusing on the job.

The compound was like a small fortress. It was surrounded by a five metre high wall that was topped with barbed wire. On the wall were two towers, mounted with machine guns and manned by guards. As well as the armed guards in the towers, there were also guards patrolling within the compound itself. She had counted 20 so far, patrolling the grounds and the building in pairs.

Breaking in and stealing the document from the safe was going to be a challenging task.

She took a deep, steadying breath, closing her eyes to draw on her inner reserves of mental strength, before opening them again with a long exhale.

The first step was going to be getting into the compound itself.

At five metres tall, the wall was too tall for her to vault over. There was also the problem of the armed guards in the towers. They would undoubtedly notice any attempt to climb the walls and Natasha did not doubt that they had orders to shoot on sight.

She silently got to her feet, turning and starting to make her way through the jungle. She was not walking down towards the compound, however – she was walking  _up_. She had predicted that the walls would not a viable entry point and had planned accordingly. The paraglider bumped gently on her back as she made her way through the jungle towards the top of the hill.

The humid jungle heat caused her skin to prickle with sweat, the chirping of crickets and the buzzing of other insects filling her ears.

Despite the uncomfortableness of her surroundings and the deadly serious nature of her mission, Natasha found a small smile tugging at her lips. Paragliding had been a skill she had learned in the year after graduating from the Red Room Academy. It was not a skill that she got to utilise all that often, but she always relished it whenever the opportunity came around.

She loved flying. The sense of freedom that came with gliding silently through the air, riding the air currents and watching the world pass by below her feet, never ceased to amaze her. Up in the air, she felt truly free. It made her feel like a bird, high above the earth, detached from the actions of people on the ground and the reality of life down there.

She sidestepped over a stream that was running down the hill, speeding up her pace a little as the trees started to thin the further she got towards the summit.

Her plan was a simple one, in theory: she would walk to the top of the hill and paraglide in. She was banking on the fact that the guards would be looking down, not up. If the guards behaved as she expected, they would not see her approach.

She reached the top of the hill, which was devoid of trees. The breeze cooled the sweat on her forehead. After allowing herself a brief moment to catch her breath, she got to work unpacking the paraglider and unrolling the canopy, spreading it out on the ground behind her in preparation for take-off. 

Securing the harness around her chest, she unfolded the canvas seat and attached this to the harness, before checking that all the lines attaching the harness to the canopy were operational.

After double- and triple-checking that the paraglider was completely functional and ready for take-off, she made sure that her night-vision goggles were snug on her face and checked that both her guns were loaded. Digging into her pocket, she attached silencers to the ends of both pistols, running a slender finger along the metal in an effort to calm herself.

Focus and determination flowed through her veins. Guns were her weapon of choice. Her heartbeat slowed as she allowed a feeling of calm to settle over her. Tucking the pistols into two holsters that were strapped to her thighs, she gathered the paraglider's lines and started running, feeling rather than seeing the canopy of the paraglider filling up with air and rising behind her.

The harness tightened around her shoulders as the canopy tried to lift her off the ground. Natasha clenched her teeth and ran faster, feeling the canopy rising higher and higher above her before, finally, she was lifted off her feet and swept upwards, airborne.

She gasped, the jerk of the harness and the feeling of flight taking her breath away momentarily as a rush of endorphins and adrenaline surged through her system. She would never tire of this; of flying, the feeling of freedom rushing through her as she moved silently through the air.

She rose higher and higher as she spiralled around the hilltop, allowing the natural gusts that always blew around peaks in the landscape to lift her further into the air.

After around a minute of gaining height, she pulled away from the hilltop and started moving towards the compound. She felt herself start to slowly drop in height as she left the upward airflow generated by the hilltop.

Taking one hand away from the brake toggles that controlled the direction of the paraglider, she brought her hand down to her thigh and gripped her gun. The feeling of the cool metal in her fingers sharpened her focus.

She flew westwards a little to give herself a better view of the two towers situated on the wall that surrounded the compound. The towers were her initial targets. There were four guards there, two in each tower, all armed with machine guns. If she was to move around the compound unimpeded, she had to eliminate them first.

Once the paraglider had settled into a slow, steady trajectory, she took her hand off the other brake toggle and drew the other gun from her holster. With a gun in each hand, she lined up her sights with the two guards in the first tower. She would have to kill them at exactly the same time; if one of them lived long enough to see the other one shot, they would have the opportunity to raise the alarm, and her plans would be ruined.

She took several deep breaths, steadying her nerves as she focused all her attention on the two men stood in the tower. She called on all her experience of shooting, remembering all the perfect bullseyes she had shot whilst at the Red Room Academy and on her missions as a KGB agent. Her heartrate settled as she exhaled slowly, a sense of calmness washing over her as she squeezed the triggers simultaneously.

The two guards in the first tower dropped dead immediately.

Smiling briefly as relief washed over her, she turned her attention to the guards in the other tower. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a dark shadow moving in the jungle near the wall, seemingly stalking towards the compound. She glanced at the shape briefly, before turning her attention back to the remaining tower guards. The shape in the jungle was probably just an animal – it was not worthy of her attention.

The guards in the second tower had seemingly not noticed their colleagues in the other tower falling dead. They were probably bored. They probably hated being on tower duty, having to spend hours stood up there with nothing to do. After all, no one was usually stupid enough to try to break in to Ernesto Silva's compound. They were probably thinking about their families, or what they would eat after their shift was over, or what they would do at the weekend. All this went through Natasha's mind very briefly as she pulled the triggers once more, sending the bullets through the guard's skulls.

She tucked the guns back into their holsters with a satisfied smile as she watched the second pair of bodies fall dead in their tower. She was descending more rapidly now, the compound looming large below her.

She could see more guards, again in pairs, patrolling various parts of the grounds in spaced intervals. They appeared to be walking a set route within the compound walls, part of which took them into a secluded wooded area which could not be seen from the building.

She was about ten metres off the ground. Three metres. Two metres. One metre.

The ground rushed up to meet her.

Touchdown.

Her feet landed silently on the grass. She immediately yanked down the paraglider canopy, which was floating down lazily through the air. It rustled quietly as she gathered it up and ran for the cover of the trees.

She made it into the treeline just as a pair of guards rounded the corner of the building and made their way across the grass. Natasha tugged the paraglider canopy behind her as she hurried deeper into the trees, desperately wishing that the canopy would stop making so much noise as it deflated, rustling and crinkling in her arms.

She heard the footsteps of the guards speeding towards her, could hear the confusion in their voices as they watched what must have looked like a strange shadow moving around in the trees. She dropped the canopy at her feet and pressed herself against the trunk of a particularly large tree as the sound of their footsteps edged closer.

"I swear, I saw something," said one of the guards.

Natasha jumped; the sound of the man's voice could not have been more than a few feet away. She held her breath, not daring to make a single noise as her hands inched towards the pistols strapped to her thighs. Her fingers wrapped around the grips as she pulled them from their holsters, instinctively finding the triggers without needing to look down.

"Yeah, a ghost by the looks of it," sneered the other guard, the mocking tone making the first guard snarl in frustration.

Natasha took advantage of their momentary lapse in concentration to whip out from behind the tree trunk, squeezing off two shots.

She barely flinched as flecks of blood sprayed onto her face. The bodies fell to the woodland floor with two soft thumps. Natasha instantly started dragging the closest of the bodies towards a patch of dense shrubbery, making sure that it was completely hidden before going back and dragging the second body to same hiding spot.

After removing all of her paragliding equipment and stowing it away alongside the bodies, she slipped further into the shrubs herself, acutely aware that the next pair of guards would soon be making their way along the same path.

As if on cue, they rounded the corner of the building, the sounds of their boots carrying in the quiet night.

 _Snap_.

Natasha whirled around, staring wildly into the darkness as her heart hammered in her chest. Behind her was just more shrubbery, the shadows created by the leaves playing tricks on her mind, no doubt. Yet, the sound of the twig snapping and the rustle of leaves had been so close that she could have sworn that someone was there, just metres away.

"Hey, what's that?"

The sound of the next set of guards approaching snapped Natasha's attention away from her imaginary stalker in the bushes.

"Is that a boot?"

Shit.

One of the guards' feet must have been poking out from the foliage. Without giving the approaching guards a chance to further examine the boot-shaped object they had just spotted, she raised her arms once more and shot both men in the forehead, the twin thumps telling her that she had found her marks.

Sticking the guns back in their holsters, she dragged the bodies behind the bushes to join their colleagues, making sure that no feet were sticking out this time, before quickly stripping the smallest one of his uniform.

It took longer than she expected – she had to pause and wait silently when another pair of guards marched past – but eventually she divulged the guard of his clothing. Quickly shedding her own layers, she pulled on the guard's uniform. After a moment’s consideration, she grabbed his gun as well; it was always wise to acquire extra weapons if they presented themselves.

Pulling the brim of the guard's cap down low over her face, she started marching purposefully towards the compound, being careful to walk the exact same route she had observed the guards walking before.

If she was lucky, no one would bother to stop her. She was hedging her bets on the fact that people were often simply blinded by uniforms, looking at the clothing rather than the person wearing it.

She crossed the grounds quickly, thankfully not coming across anyone, and slipped inside the building. Her heartrate increased as she made her way through the dark corridors.

This was the place where Silva made all his deals with his suppliers and distributors. Rumour had it that he was earning millions every year, making a profit out of other people's misery. He was not someone who Natasha would lose any sleep over stealing from – not that she ever did, anyway.

Currently, the building seemed quiet. Natasha supposed that everyone had gone home for the day. It was well into the night by now. She wondered if anyone was there at all, or if the guards were simply being paid to guard an empty house. She had no idea if Silva himself lived here or if this was simply his business premises. The KGB had not considered the information important enough to tell her.

Upon passing one of the mahogany doors, a gold plate on the front of it caught her eye. She stopped, leaning in to read it in the dim light. On the plate was one word.

 _Silva_.

Natasha's nerves kicked up a notch as she placed a cautious hand on the door knob, listening carefully for any noises inside. The room was silent and her hand was not picking up any vibrations through the door, so she gently twisted the door knob, her breath hitching as it opened easily to her touch.

She stepped inside quickly, taking in the large study she found herself standing in. It was decorated luxuriously, with leather sofas, solid oak bookcases and thick white rugs on the floor. Off to one side was a door that presumably led to another meeting room. Wide windows spanned the opposite side of the room, revealing the grounds she had been sneaking around in just minutes previously.

On one of the walls hung a small painting. It was hanging askew, one side slightly higher than the other. Natasha approached it carefully.

Could the safe really be there, hidden behind the painting? It seemed so clichéd, so stereotypical, that it was almost too good to be true. Then again, she reasoned, after the tough life she had had so far, she was due a little good luck.

She stepped forward, running a hand gently around the edge of the painting, feeling for any kind of mechanism that might set off an alarm. She found nothing, so she proceeded to lift the painting off its hook and place it on the floor.

Behind the painting was, indeed, the safe.

Gripping the dial, she put her ear to the safe and listened carefully as she twisted the dial, hearing the little tumblers fall into place. When the final tumbler clicked, she took a deep breath, finding, to her surprise, that she was trembling. Wiping her sweaty hands on her stolen trousers, she opened the safe.

It was almost anti-climactic.

A single USB stick sat innocently inside the case. She had been expecting piles of money and drugs, perhaps heaps of important documents bound together and sealed with wax. To find a single USB stick was... disappointing.

Sighing, she reached inside, snatching up the USB stick and stuffing it in her pocket.

Closing the safe and placing the painting back on the wall, she turned around.

"Hello, beautiful."

Natasha jumped back violently, her back hitting the wall as she recoiled in shock from the man who was standing just metres away from her.

Silva was stood on one of the thick white rugs, a revolver in his outstretched hand pointing directly at Natasha's forehead. He was a fat, balding man, dressed in a flamboyant suit and gold chains. Next to him, the door that Natasha had assumed led to another meeting room was ajar.

"Congratulations," he drawled. "I assume you have the USB stick in your pocket?"

Natasha's hand twitched by her side, instinctively moving towards her pocket, but Silva simply clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"Don't move a muscle, or I’ll blow your brains out," he warned. "I'm going to blow your brains out eventually, of course, but I'd rather take the opportunity to have a conversation with you first."

He spoke calmly, as if he were simply stating facts rather than making threats, and it occurred to Natasha that that was exactly what he was doing.

He was not  _threatening_ to kill her.

He was  _going_ to kill her.

He was going to paint the wall with her brains and blood, and that was simply a fact.

She stared down the barrel of Silva's gun. She was going to die. The realisation hit her painfully. Everybody died, of course. She always knew that she would die one day. But now she knew that she was going to die  _tonight –_ and it terrified her.

She wondered if this was how James had felt, when he had been tied to that chair for the final part of Natasha's graduation examinations. He had known that he was going to die, perhaps from the moment he had been kidnapped. He had looked at Natasha with the gun in her hand and seen the inevitable outcome. Natasha felt herself trembling.

James had accepted death. He had been calm.

Natasha did not feel calm.

She felt sick. She felt scared. She felt miserable. But she also felt that this was somehow right. She was a monster. She was a person who had been raised to be a killer, a thief, a torturer. She did not deserve to live a long life. She had always suspected that she would meet an early end, such was the dangerous nature of her job. But knowing that it was coming, even knowing that she deserved it, did not make her feel any less scared. She was terrified.

She wished James were here. James would hold her hand and sing English nursery rhymes to her to help keep her calm.

She yearned for Elena. Elena would hold her tight, tell her to close her eyes and imagine a beautiful field filled with flowers: poppies and buttercups. Natasha remembered how they had given one another hand-picked bouquets of wild flowers, an innocent gift from a time before love was outlawed by Madame B.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

She was alone. Death was a journey she would have to take by herself. It was a lonely, solitary walk. She did not have the luxury of loved ones there to hold her hands. And besides, she did not deserve it.

"Why do you want to have a conversation with me?" she asked, because she could not think of anything else to say.

Silva laughed, his fat belly jiggling slightly with the effort.

"You're the Black Widow! You're infamous!" he said, his face splitting into a wide grin, as if he had been given an exciting gift. "When I heard that the KGB had sent you, do you know how excited I was?"

Natasha was silent for a second, stunned by Silva's statement.

"You knew I was coming?"

Silva laughed again, his gross belly shaking once more. Natasha wanted to be sick. He had known she was coming. What was going on? Why had she been allowed to get inside the compound at all? Was this all some sort of sick game?

"I have eyes and ears in Sao Paulo," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "One of my guys saw you and called me to say that I might be getting a little visit from you. I have to say though, I was  _not_ expecting the paraglider! That was a stroke of genius!"

His brown eyes were popping wide with excitement, his face animated with greedy joy. He was looking at Natasha as if she were some kind of circus animal, a curiosity to be poked and gawped at.

"I killed some of your guards," Natasha said numbly. "I killed eight of them."

Silva frowned a little, his fat forehead creasing as his red face contorted.

"Yes, that was very naughty of you," he admonished. "I didn't warn them you were coming; I wanted to see if you could get in here. But all the same, those guards were my property, and I don't like people touching my things."

Natasha swallowed nervously.

Silva's frown deepened.

"Talk," he said. "Tell me about your life as the Black Widow. Is it fun? Is it exciting? Entertain me."

Natasha stared at the man stood in front of her. He was insane, she realised. He was a rich, charismatic, ruthless, criminal lunatic. This was little more than a game to him – seeing if she would manage to break into the compound, seeing how many of his own guards she would kill, this entire conversation – it was all a game, designed purely for Silva's entertainment. He was enjoying this; a little after-hours fun in his opulent office.

Natasha clenched her fists, letting out a shaky sigh. She was so tired. She was tired of Silva's games. She was tired of being a pawn for the KGB. She was tired of living her entire life under the control of some organisation; always owned and never free.

She stared silently at Silva's gun. It was still trained on her forehead, Silva’s fat finger resting next to the trigger. She knew, instinctively, that she would not be able to reach her own gun and shoot him in less time than it would take him to simply move his finger and pull the trigger on her.

She was trapped.

"Just kill me."

The words slipped quietly from her lips. She sucked in another shaky breath, her whole body trembling as she realised what she had just said. It was a request. No, it was more than that – it was a plea.

She was begging him to end her life, to finally set her free from the enslavement that she had been subjected to from the moment Vladimir had chosen to kidnap her from an overcrowded hospital ward when she was 3 years old.

She yearned for freedom. She had longed for freedom her entire life. She had seen glimpses of it – hot summer days with Elena, cosy fireside chats with James, camping between the Caspian Sea and the Caucasus Mountains – but she knew, ultimately, that true freedom would never be hers.

She would never know what it was like to have a choice. She would never know what it was like to spend her days without waiting for her next orders from Dmitry. She would never know the big blue sky.

Another tear slipped down her cheek. She could practically hear Madame B in her ear, chastising her for showing weakness, but what did it matter, now? She was going to die. She had spent her whole life keeping her emotions hidden. She felt entitled to this one display of fear in her final moments.

"Please," she said, her voice breaking a little on the quiet syllable.

Life without freedom was not a life at all. She realised this, now, with a gun held to her head. She had been dead for a long while, perhaps since she was 3 years old. It was time for Silva to put her out of her misery.

Silva was looking at her curiously, his head cocked to the side, before he shrugged, an expression of disappointment flashing across his features.

"As you wish."

Natasha closed her eyes.

Panic surged in her chest for a brief moment.

This was it. This was the end.

She hoped, desperately, that it would not hurt.

 _Bang_.

 

* * *

 

Clint crouched low, hidden amongst the trees and shrubs of the jungle outside Ernesto Silva's five-metre high compound wall.

He had tailed the Black Widow through Sao Paulo and followed her to the hillside. It had been a challenge, keeping a far enough distance between them so that she would not notice him following her, but staying close enough so that he would not lose in her.

He had brought a SHIELD motorbike with him. It made trailing her through the jungle even more difficult, as he had to pull the heavy bike along with him (for obvious reasons, he could not switch on the engine) but he needed it with him, should he need to make a quick getaway.

On a few occasions, he had stepped on or rolled the motorbike over a branch. He had winced every time, painfully aware of how the Black Widow would stop and stand rigidly whenever this happened, clearly listening for any other sound that was out of the ordinary.

On these occasions, Clint had simply stood as still as possible, not even daring to breathe. Luckily, the jungle was alive with animals, and by sheer luck, some creature or another had always made some kind of noise whenever Clint had snapped a branch. After the first few times, the Black Widow had relaxed, clearly attributing the sounds of Clint moving through the jungle to some wild animal.

Clint had watched her carefully as she had settled down for a long while, simply observing the compound through some kind of special goggles.

He had kept his distance, not wanting her to become aware of his presence. He was not entirely sure why he was doing this. He should have killed her by now. For the last hour, they had been far away from any densely populated areas. He could –  _should_  – have killed her the moment they were clear of civilians.

And yet, something about her piqued Clint's curiosity. If he had been asked to verbalise it, he would struggle to do so. Perhaps he was simply in awe of this woman, who had hundreds of successful missions under her belt and skills to rival the best SHIELD agents. Perhaps it was to do with his gut feeling that there was more to this case than met the eye.

Something about the Black Widow bothered him. It did not make sense that she had simply appeared out of nowhere, one of the best assassins the world had ever seen, with no warm up period. Usually, agents would earn a reputation over time. The Black Widow had earned a reputation almost overnight.

It nagged at him. A small nugget of doubt had burrowed into his brain and refused to leave. He had to follow her, just to observe her, just to see if there really was more to this woman than the heartless assassin Director Fury had briefed him on. In his line of work, he relied a lot on his instincts. And his instincts were screaming at him that there was something deeply troubling about the entire Black Widow affair.

The Black Widow stood up, turning and walking  _up_ , away from the compound, heading towards the top of the hill.

Clint stayed still and silent in his position, confusion swirling inside of him. Why was the Black Widow moving away from the compound? He presumed that was her target. It was the home of one of Brazil's biggest drug lords, Ernesto Silva. People like the Black Widow did not simply happen to stumble upon the residences of such people by coincidence.

Clint maintained his position, bringing his own pair of night-vision goggles up to his face to peer through the darkness. He was right on the edge of a clearing, which meant that he could see the top of the hill quite well, as the trees thinned near the hilltop.

After about 15 minutes of silent observation, he saw the unmistakable shape of a paraglider's canopy taking form against the night sky.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. He had not even considered the option of flying into the compound. The Black Widow was resourceful. He was impressed.

Slipping further into the trees so that she would not see him from her elevated viewpoint, he started quickly making his way down the hill, less worried this time about the amount of noise he was making as he jogged through the undergrowth, pulling his motorbike along beside him.

It did not take him long to arrive at the compound walls. He slowed his walk down, keeping to the shadows and keeping as quiet as possible so as not to attract the attention of the guards in the towers. He had spotted them earlier. They were armed with machine guns.

Stowing his motorbike as close to the compound wall as he dared, he peered through the thick forest shrubs just in time to hear two tell-tale thuds from the nearest guard tower. His eyes swivelled to the tower immediately. The guards were no longer visible. The Black Widow must have killed them, probably shot them from up in the air.

Shrinking back further into the trees so that he was sure she would not see him, he turned his attention to the other tower. If the Black Widow wanted to move around the compound unimpeded, she would have to get rid of those two as well.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, the guards in the second tower fell down simultaneously. Clint had to stop himself from whistling. The Black Widow was good.  _Very_ good.

He did not feel particularly bad about allowing the guards to be killed. Ernesto Silva and his employees had made their decision to be part of the drugs trade. He had seen first-hand the devastation that drugs wreaked upon people's lives; drugs tore apart families, made many addicts turn to crime to feed their habits. Clint despised drugs and the trail of human misery that they left in their wake. He did not feel bad about these people, so intimately involved in the drugs trade, dying.

Switching his night-vision goggles back on, he looked up, watching as the Black Widow silently descended towards the compound. She was aiming for a part of the compound that contained a wooded area. As soon as she got low enough that he was out of her line of sight, he withdrew one of his special arrows and nocked it in his bow, pointing it at the top of the wall.

He let the arrow loose, watching as it embedded itself into the wall, a thick wire trailing behind it. He ran towards the wall, briefly testing that the arrow was well-enough embedded in the wall that the wire could support his weight, and then pressed a button on his bow that reeled him up.

In many ways, Clint was a traditionalist. He preferred vinyl over CDs or digital music. He preferred cooking homemade meals over processed food. When it came to work, however, he knew that technology offered him an advantage, and he was grateful for the quality of the tech that SHIELD provided him with. A mechanical bow, with arrows that allowed him to winch himself up and down, definitely came in handy.

He reached the top of the wall, holding himself steady with one hand whilst the other quickly cut away a large portion of the barbed wire. Slipping on a glove, he yanked this section of wire away, throwing it as hard as he could towards the jungle. Barbed wire cleared, he used the bow-and-arrow winch to lower himself quickly into the compound, releasing the metal wire from his bow once he was safely on the ground.

Ducking down low, he ran towards the trees, skirting around the edges next to the compound wall, so that he minimised his chances of accidentally running into the Black Widow or any of the guards.

He moved silently through the trees, his feet treading carefully to avoid making excessive noise.

He stopped dead. The Black Widow was right in front of him, stuffing her paragliding equipment under some bushes alongside what looked like the bodies of two more guards.

She was facing away from him, for now, but Clint knew that it would only take her a split second to turn around and see him.

He dived to the side, rolling behind a thick tree trunk.

 _Snap_.

Clint froze. His eyes darted down in horror to stare at the traitorous twig under his boot that had cracked so loudly in the still night. From the other side of the tree, he could hear the Black Widow's breathing quickening. She had heard the twig snap, he was sure of it. His hand crept down to his pistol.

"Hey, what's that?"

A Portuguese voice floated through the trees, the guard's tone laced with confusion.

"Is that a boot?"

Clint strained his ears, desperately wanting to know what was going on, but not daring to stick his head out from behind the tree lest the Black Widow see him.

The unmistakable sound of two silenced gunshots rang out from the other side of the tree, followed by two thumps and a quiet rustling sound that Clint presumed was the Black Widow dragging the next two guards' bodies out of sight.

After a while, Clint became aware of another rustling sound. Daring to take a peak around the tree trunk, he saw that the Black Widow was getting changed into one of the guard's uniforms. Her movements were quick and skilled. She was obviously well-trained, smart and resourceful.

She was looking down, so he allowed himself to look at her face before melting back behind the cover provided by the tree trunk and the shrubbery.

A frown creased his forehead. The expression that he had glimpsed on her face troubled him. He had expected her to have a cold, determined look about her. Instead, she just looked tired and resigned. It unnerved him, giving further voice to that small nagging feeling in the back of his mind that something was amiss.

The sound of the Black Widow stepping away through the trees snapped his attention back to the present. Clint slowly emerged from behind his tree trunk, watching as the Black Widow confidently strode across the lawn towards the compound.

He found himself impressed. It took courage to walk straight into enemy territory so brazenly. He preferred to make sure that all his enemies were incapacitated first.

He watched her disappear into the building. He was briefly at a loss at what to do. He could not follow her inside. It was one thing to follow someone outdoors, when there were places to hide and background noises to hide one's presence, and another thing entirely to do the same indoors. If he set foot indoors, she would notice him immediately. It would be suicide.

He cursed to himself. He should not even be here. He should have killed her hours ago when he had first seen her in Sao Paulo. Now he was in the middle of the drug lord's compound, trailing after a master assassin like he had a death wish.

This entire scenario was foolish.

And yet, his instincts were rarely wrong. And right now, his instincts were telling him that, however crazy it may seem, this was the best course of action, this was exactly where he needed to be, because there was just something  _strange_ about this entire case.

After around 10 long minutes, Clint became restless. He slipped forwards through the trees. A pair of guards had just passed by, which meant that the next set would not arrive for another 5 minutes or so.

He jogged silently across the lawn, staying low in case anyone was looking out of the windows. Upon reaching the house, he pulled another piece of tech from his belt.

This one was a listening device. It looked like a short piece of wire with a gadget on each end. On one end, was an earpiece – he secured the bud in his ear. On the other end, was what looked like a suction cup. He placed the cup gently on the nearest window, listening intently.

Nothing.

Undeterred, he jogged to the next window and repeated the process. Jog, suction cup, listen. Jog, suction cup, listen. The process repeated four times before he finally found what he was looking – well, listening – for.

"Just kill me."

Clint almost dropped the listening device in shock. He had just heard the Black Widow ask someone to kill her. What this some kind of trick? A trap? All notions that the woman may be faking went out of the window, however, when he heard her crying softly.

Clint knew a thing or two about crying. Before he had joined SHIELD, before he had met Laura, he had not had the happiest of lives. His mother had been absent, his father frequently drunk and infrequently violent. He knew what it was like to put on a brave face to the world and crumble the moment the world looked away. He knew what it was like to cry, when you thought no one was there to listen. The Black Widow's tears were genuine, he was certain of it.

"Please."

The word was said so softly that Clint almost missed it. His hands started to sweat as a fine tremor ran through his body.

The drug lord was going to kill her.

His heartrate accelerated. He shook his head violently, trying to sort out his thoughts. So what if the Black Widow was killed? That was the very reason why he was there. He was supposed to have killed her at the earliest opportunity. So what if her death was delayed by a few hours and the person pulling the trigger was a drug lord rather than himself? Why did it bother him so much?

He knew why. It was her sudden appearance five years ago. It was the tired, dejected look on her face as she changed into the guard's clothes. It was her quiet tears and her begging the drug lord to kill her.

Clint trusted his instincts.

His instincts were never wrong.

"As you wish."

Clint surged forwards, pulling his gun from his holster and firing once through the window.

 

* * *

 

_Bang._

There was no pain. That was Natasha's first thought.

Her second thought was: hang on a minute, she was  _thinking_.

Her eyes were still clamped shut, she was in a world of darkness, but her mind was whirling at a mile a minute.

She was  _thinking_ , which meant that either she was still alive or there was some kind of afterlife. Both seemed impossible, so she kept her eyes tightly closed.

The sound of someone stepping on broken glass snapped her eyes wide open.

Silva was lying dead on the floor, his blood soaking into the thick white rug.

She glanced down at herself, drawing in a tentative breath as she saw that she appeared to be alive and unharmed.

Looking back up, her eyes fell on the person who had presumably just shot the drug lord and saved her life. He was around 5 foot 10 inches tall, with light brown hair and blue eyes. In his right hand was a gun. In his left was a bow. She stared at the bow and then at the arrows on the man's back for a few long seconds.

Perhaps she had sustained a head injury, after all.

"Are you real?" she blurted out.

The man gave her a quick smile as he grabbed her by the wrist and started hauling her towards the broken window.

"I sure am," he said. "Call me Clint."

Natasha allowed herself to be dragged along by the man –  _Clint_ – still stunned by the events that had just unfolded.

Clint hopped out of the window, landing gracefully on the grass below, before looking up at her expectantly.

"You're going to want to get out of there," he said, pulling a pin out of a grenade that he had seemingly just pulled from his pocket.

Natasha's eyes widened with shock as she eyed the explosive device, not hesitating to follow his lead and leap out of the window. As soon as she was out of the building, he lobbed the grenade in through the broken window. It was only then that Natasha heard the thundering of footsteps from within the building heading towards their location.

Clint's gun had not had a silencer, she realised. They must have heard the gunshot and come to fight off the intruders.

Wordlessly, both Natasha and Clint started sprinting away from the building as fast as they could.

A few seconds later, Natasha felt a wave of intense heat prickle at her exposed neck as the grenade exploded, sending its deadly shockwave of energy blowing outwards. Thankfully, they were far enough away that they did not sustain any injury, but Natasha could have sworn that she was actually lifted off her feet for a second as the shockwave pushed her forwards.

"This way!" shouted Clint, pointing towards a particular section of the wall to their left.

Natasha followed him as they veered off in the direction he was pointing to, wondering what was so special about this section of wall.

Clint skidded to a halt in front of her, quickly pulling an arrow from his collection and nocking it in his bow for a second before letting it fly. Natasha watched in awe as the arrow shot straight to the top of the wall, trailing a thick wire behind it.

"Hold on," said Clint, before stepping close and wrapping a strong arm around her waist.

Natasha obeyed, gripping him tightly, as he triggered some sort of winch mechanism in his bow and they were jerked upwards. Horror filled Natasha's chest as she remembered, belatedly, about the barbed wire that topped the entire compound wall. They were going to be ripped to shreds.

"There's barbed wire on the walls," she said, impressed at how deceptively calm she sounded.

She felt, rather than saw, Clint smile against her neck.

"Not this part," was all he said, before they reached the top of the wall and scrambled up onto the concrete.

As Clint has promised, this section of wall was devoid of barbed wire. He had obviously cleared it before he had entered the compound. Swinging over the top of the wall, Natasha continued to hold onto Clint tightly as they abseiled down the other side.

They reached ground level. Clint darted off for a moment into the trees, returning a few seconds later dragging a motorbike alongside him. He started up the engine as he walked, until he was standing right in front of her.

"Come with me."

Natasha tilted her head to the side. It should have sounded like an order, but from Clint it sounded like a request. No, it sounded like more than that. It sounded almost as if Clint was pleading. Natasha was stunned. This man was a stranger. They did not know one another. Why did he seem so desperate for her to come with him?

Clint swung one leg over the motorbike, mounting it and gripping the handlebars as the sound of men shouting in the compound drew nearer.

It was that that made up Natasha's mind. Without a word, she jumped onto the back of the motorbike, wrapping her arms tightly around Clint's waist as she gripped the seat with her thighs.

As soon as Clint felt Natasha holding on firmly, the motorbike roared into life, carrying them away from the compound as quickly as Clint dared in the darkness.

Natasha watched the jungle flash by, dark greens and browns illuminated by the motorbike's headlamp. Her heart was hammering in her chest, a strange mixture of shock, anxiety and excitement spiking within her.

She felt dazed. She had been sure she was going to die. She had stared down Silva's gun and begged him to end her life. And she had meant it. The realisation disturbed her. She had never particularly considered her mental health before, but even she realised that that was messed up.

Then Clint had showed up. Clint, a man with a bow and arrow and a soft American drawl; the world's strangest guardian angel.

As she allowed the events of the last half an hour to slowly sink in, more and more questions arose in her mind.

Who was Clint? Who was he working for? Where was he taking her? What were the KGB going to do when they discovered that she had messed up yet another mission and then ran off with a complete stranger?

Except, somehow, Clint did not feel like a stranger. There was something about him that reminded her of something, someone, from long ago in her past. It was a strange feeling, a pleasant feeling.

It took her a while to realise what the feeling was. It was safety. Clint made her feel safe. She had immediately trusted him, on an innate level. He reminded her of Elena and James.

She frowned against his back. There was no such thing as safety. There was no such thing as trust. Madame B had taught her that.

Natasha thought back to her time at the Red Room Academy. She tried to imagine the look on Madame B's face if she could see her now, directly disobeying orders, running away from the KGB. She smiled. Madame B would throw a fit.

She was running away from the KGB. The realisation dawned on her gradually, and as it did, a wide smile spread over her face, stretching so wide that it actually made her face hurt. She was escaping the KGB in the most physical, visceral way. It was a thrill. It felt exciting. It felt  _good_.

She may not who this Clint person was, or who he worked for, but he had saved her life and now he was helping her to escape.

She settled down on the back on the bike, repositioning her hands around his waist so that she would not bruise him.

She made the decision to simply enjoy the ride.

If this man tried to do anything she did not like, she could easily kill him.

She smiled against Clint's back, closing her eyes and fantasising about freedom.

 

* * *

 

They rode in silence for about an hour.

Clint was fairly certain that none of Silva's cronies were following them. No doubt they had found his body by now and were having some kind of internal power struggle to seize the freshly-vacated top spot.

Clint's thoughts were raging inside of him.

The Black Widow's arms were wrapped around his waist, her body pressed snugly against his as they rode through the Brazilian night towards a SHIELD safe house on the outskirts of Sao Paulo.

He took a few minutes to think about just how crazy that was. He was riding with the Black Widow. If Director Fury were here now, he would probably have a heart attack on the spot.

Clint was careful not to let his guard down. He knew that the woman sitting behind him could kill him in a hundred different ways without breaking a sweat. He knew that she was one of the most prolific and successful assassins the world had ever seen.

And yet, for some reason, he knew that she would not harm him.

Again, he knew this in an indescribable, indefinable way. It was simply instinct, honed by years of being brought up by a violent father and then being trained to be one of SHIELD's top agents.

This woman was not evil. He knew that as a fact, just as he knew the earth went around the sun. She was simply not evil.

There was a lot going on inside her head, that was for sure. The look on her face when she had got changed into the dead guard’s clothing and the tone of her voice when she had asked for Silva to end her life showed that. She was like a closed book, written in another language, locked inside a box. There were many layers to her mystery and Clint was taken by the overwhelming urge to peel back those layers and reveal the person beneath.

The Black Widow was troubled.

He wanted to help her.

He sighed. Director Fury was going to bollock him. If he was not sacked altogether, he felt sure that he would be placed straight back on the bottom rung of the ladder, forced to do Level 1 jobs with all the new recruits.

It was worth it, he decided. He was not going to kill someone who he felt had a chance to be saved, or at the very least, a chance to explain herself.

When he had first seen her face, he had been shocked. She was much younger than he had been expecting. She could not be any older than 25. The knowledge that she was so young and yet so obviously well-trained sent a shudder down his spine. Just how young had she been when she had started her training?

He slowed the motorbike down as they approached the SHIELD safe house. Twisting around, he checked that there was no one following them, before pulling the motorbike into a garage that opened automatically as it detected the close proximity of a chip that was embedded inside the bike.

He turned off the engine as the garage door slid shut behind them. Hopping off the bike, he watched as the Black Widow also clambered off the bike, a little more slowly. He smiled, trying his best to avoid the sudden silence becoming an awkward one.

"Let me show you around," he said, giving her a small smile as he led her out of the garage through a door that led straight into a lounge. "Here's the living room. Back here is the bedroom. Uh, you can stay there; I'll take the couch... There's a bathroom through here. And, ah, yeah, here's the kitchen!"

He flipped on the light switch as they entered the final, cramped room. It was a dingy little room, with mould growing on the ceiling and terribly clashing colours: bright yellow and brown.

"Cosy," muttered the Black Widow.

Clint chuckled as he stepped forwards to start hunting through the cupboards.

"Your English is really good," he said. "You sound American."

At this, the Black Widow's eyes lit up briefly, a tiny smile brightening her whole face. For a moment, Clint glimpsed the woman he wanted her to be, happy, relaxed and carefree.

"Thank you," she said, smiling down at the floor. "I'm Russian actually."

Clint pulled out two tins from the cupboard: potato and leek soup and a tin of baked beans. He dug around a little more, but could not find anything else that was within its best-by date. He sighed with annoyance; he would have to tell Fury that they needed to keep their safe houses better stocked.

"So I've heard," he said, before turning around and presenting the tins. "Are you hungry?"

The Black Widow squinted at the tins before shaking her head.

Clint nodded and dug out two pans from another cupboard, before pouring out the contents of the tins into each pan and putting them on the stove to heat up.

He continued to move around the kitchen, humming softly to himself as he found four bowls and some cutlery inside the messy cupboards.

He kept an eye on the Black Widow out of the corner of his eye, but she did not make any move to attack him. She simply watched him moving around the kitchen with vague interest, as if he were a TV programme she was curious about.

As the pans stared to steam, he poured half the soup into one bowl and half the baked beans into another.

Picking up the two bowls, he sat down at the table, digging into his strange meal as the Black Widow stood silently in the corner.

"Sit down, if you like," he mumbled through a mouthful of beans. "Are you sure you don't want any? I know it's a weird combination, but it's alright taste-wise."

After a moment, the Black Widow nodded tentatively. Clint grinned as he poured the remaining soup and beans into another two bowls and put them down in front of her.

"Dig in," he said, returning to his own seat and shovelling some soup into his mouth.

Opposite him, the Black Widow was digging into the food with equal gusto. She must have been hungry. Clint wondered why she had declined the offer of food before. Perhaps she thought it might have been poisoned, he thought. Assassination attempts must be an occupational hazard in her line of work.

"So, do you have a name?" he asked, crossing over to the sink to fill two glasses with water. "I'm calling you the Black Widow in my head, but you must have a real name too, right?"

He laughed at his own joke, not at all put off when the Black Widow did not join in.

"I'm the Black Widow," she said, looking thoughtful. "That's all I am, really. But if you really want to call me something else, you can call me the Anglicised version of my name, I guess."

She cleared her throat, looking awkward all of a sudden.

"Natasha Romanoff."

Clint hummed. She did look like a Natasha, now that she said it.

"It's nice to meet you, Natasha," he said, sticking out a hand. "Can I call you Nat?"

Natasha returned his handshake, a small smile quirking her lips.

"No."

Clint pouted, pretending to be hurt.

"Fine," he said. "Well,  _Natasha,_ I guess I owe you a little explanation as to what's going on."

Natasha clasped her hands together on the table, somehow managing to look both sarcastic and business-like as she smiled sweetly back at him.

"Please do," she said.

"My name's Clint Barton," he said. "I work for an organisation called SHIELD."

Natasha hummed thoughtfully, tapping her fingers rhythmically on the table top.

"SHIELD," she echoed. "Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. The American espionage, law-enforcement and counter-terrorism agency. I think I stole some data from you once."

Clint nodded, remembering the long list of crimes that Director Fury had handed to him when he was briefing Clint on why it was absolutely necessary for him to kill her. Clint took a sip of water as he looked at the very much alive Natasha sitting opposite him.

"Yes, that's right," he said. "Your activities attracted our attention. I was sent to kill you."

Natasha's fingers on the table top stilled. She sat motionless for a few seconds. Clint saw her eyes flickering to the exits. She was probably calculating how long it would take her to get out, balancing it against the speed it would take Clint to draw his gun and shoot her. Clint would be faster. She did not move.

"Are you going to?" she asked.

Clint looked at her seriously, his blue eyes piercing her green ones.

"No. Or rather, I don't want to," he clarified. "I want to offer you a deal instead."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. After a long second, she motioned for him to continue.

"You can either join SHIELD," said Clint, "Or you can stay with the KGB. But if you stay with the KGB, the next time I see you, I'll have to kill you." He was silent for a few seconds, before continuing softly. "I'd really prefer you to take the first option."

He was careful to keep his face calm. On the inside, however, his nerves were shredded. What was he  _doing_? He had no authority to make employment offers for SHIELD. He was supposed to be killing this woman, not recruiting her. He would have to work miracles to convince Director Fury of his plan. This mission was rapidly spiralling out of all control.

"What do you want, Natasha?"

Natasha sat silently for a long while, her eyes fixed over Clint's shoulder, misted over and looking at something that obviously was not of this world. Clint wondered what memory she was getting lost in, to make her expression as wistful as it was.

"Freedom, honesty, friendship and kindness," she said eventually.

Clint blinked. This was not the answer he had been expecting.

"My friend James once told me that those four things were more important than anything else in the world. I want them."

She gulped, looking down at the table and biting her bottom lip in a way that looked suspiciously like she was trying not to cry. He was so preoccupied with watching her that it took a moment for what she had just told him to sink in.

"Wait," he said, a confused frown creasing his forehead. "Do you mean to say that you're  _not_ currently free?"

Natasha eyes filled with tears, before she tried to rapidly blink them away. She looked up at Clint pleadingly, one tear escaping from her eyelashes and rolling down her cheek. Clint wondered if it was a dam breaking.

"I've not been free since I was three years old," she said cryptically, a haunted expression on her face. "The KGB made me. They  _own_ me."

Clint was not entirely sure what she meant, but he reached across the table and took hold of her hands, squeezing them gently in a silent promise to protect her.

"I'll help you escape," he said quietly. "I'll help you get out of the KGB and I'll help you get a job at SHIELD instead. You'll be free. I'll help it happen, if that's what you want."

Clint did not make promises often. This was because when he _did_ make a promise, he meant it. If he promised something, he would go to the ends of the earth to make sure that he delivered on it. He had only promised a few things in his life: to be a good husband to Laura, to never be violent towards his loved ones, to be a good SHIELD agent and to protect the innocent from danger. Now he was adding a new promise to the list: to do everything in his power to free Natasha from the KGB.

"It's what I want," said Natasha, quietly. "But is it really what you want?"

Clint shot her a confused look as her hands twitched inside his.

"What do you mean?" he said.

Natasha's throat worked for a few seconds, before she pulled her hands away from Clint's to press the heels of her hands against her forehead.

A few more tears dripped down her face as her mouth worked silently. Clint was trained in lip-reading, so he could tell what she was muttering under her breath. It was one word, over and over again.  _James_. He remembered that Natasha had mentioned that James had been the one to tell her about the importance of freedom, honesty, friendship and kindness. He wondered what had happened between them.

"I'm a monster," choked out Natasha, not daring to look up at Clint's expression as the admission slipped from her lips.

Clint sat silently for a while, wondering what he could say that could convince her that he thought otherwise.

"I have a friend, his name is Bruce," he said eventually, a soft smile on his lips as Natasha finally looked back up at him. "He says the same thing about himself."

This time, it was Natasha's turn to look confused.

"And is he a monster?" she asked, wiping her tears away with the corner of her sleeve.

Clint smiled as he shook his head.

"He's one of the sweetest, kindest men I know," he said, letting the statement hang in the air between them until finally Natasha gave a little smile.

They lapsed into silence one more, but this time the atmosphere was lighter. When Natasha looked up again, her eyes were clear and the set of her jaw was determined and defiant.

"If you're going to help me escape the KGB, we need a plan," she said.

Clint reached over to the kitchen worktop and snagged a notepad and pen from the surface.

"I agree," he said, tearing off the top sheet that contained an ancient shopping list and flipping to a fresh page. "We have one big advantage over the KGB right now: they probably think your dead. The grenade caused a lot of damage to the compound."

Natasha shook her head immediately.

"They'll work out that I'm alive soon enough," she said.

Clint nodded, scribbling down the point nonetheless.

"They'll work it out soon," he admitted. "For now though, we have an advantage. They think you're dead, but you're alive, which means that we have the element of surprise until they work that out. Where is the head of the KGB based?"

Natasha momentarily looked taken aback by his question.

"Moscow," she replied, after a beat of silence.

"OK," said Clint, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. What he was about to propose sounded crazy, but he could see no other way out of their situation. "In order to be truly released by the KGB, you're going to have to strike a deal with the head of the organisation."

To his relief, Natasha did not look shocked or frightened by his idea. The sad look of resignation was back. Clint felt his heart ache a little.

"I agree," said Natasha. "Does this place have anything stronger than water?"

Clint gave her a crooked smile as he searched the cupboards, eventually finding a dusty box of beers. He plonked the whole box on the kitchen table, pulling out two and cracking them open.

"Great," said Natasha, taking a bottle with one hand and snagging the notepad and pen from Clint with the other. "Let's get planning."

It was strange how naturally they moved around each other, working together, cracking jokes and generally bantering as if they had known one another for a lot longer than just a few hours.

Neither of them completely relaxed. They were professionals, after all. They both knew that the other was a highly-trained agent from an opposing organisation. Somehow, though, that tension bled into the background, and they worked together like a well-oiled machine.

It was just past 2am when they eventually finalised their plan.

"Do you think it'll work?" Natasha asked quietly, as she gazed down at the little scribbles on the scraps of paper scattered across the kitchen table.

Clint paused. He did not make promises that he could not keep. He did not know if it would work. So he did not say 'yes'.

In the end, he said just three words. The words pretty much summarised all that they had at that moment.

"I hope so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HALFWAY: That was chapter 17 out of 34, which means that we are now halfway through the story. Thank you to everyone who has followed Natasha's journey so far. I hope the second half will continue to entertain!
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "The Deal". What is Natasha and Clint's plan? Will Natasha be able to secure a deal to leave the KGB? What will be the price of freedom?


	18. The Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/157113933666/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)

2007 – Aged 23

 

* * *

 

Nikolai Patrushev was the head of the KGB.

He had been Director of the organisation for 8 years and had been an agent for several decades before that. He had taken part in, and coordinated, thousands of missions ranging from the mundane to the dangerous to the highly unusual.

During his career at the KGB, he had seen leaders toppled, regimes infiltrated and the untouchable touched.

It took a lot to surprise Nikolai Patrushev.

He was quite impressed, therefore, when he looked up from his desk to see, very much to his surprise, the Black Widow standing just a few metres away from him, in the centre of his office.

The fact that she had managed to bypass his security and enter his office without his noticing was impressive enough.

It was even more impressive considering she had supposedly been killed in Sao Paulo less than 24 hours previously.

Obviously, that piece of intelligence had been incorrect.

Unperturbed, he gave Natasha a polite smile as he pushed his paperwork to the side to give her his full attention.

"Miss Romanova," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Please, take a seat."

He watched carefully as Natasha sat down in front of him, her hands clasped in her lap. To the untrained eye, she may look relaxed, but Nikolai could easily see through the charade. It was clear from the whiteness in her knuckles, the slight tremble of her hands, the tautness in her neck; the Black Widow was afraid.

"Would you like some tea, Natasha?" he asked, gesturing towards a teapot on his desk that he had brewed just 10 minutes earlier.

He had never met Natasha before. As Director of the entire organisation, he rarely had time to meet his field agents. That did not mean that he did not know anything about her, however. Quite the contrary. He had a spectacular memory, and the Black Widow was one of the KGB's best agents. He kept a careful eye on all his assets.

"No, thank you," she replied smoothly.

Her voice was calm and steady, not belying her nerves at all.

Impressive, thought Nikolai.

"This is a very pleasant surprise," he said, giving her a small smile. "I was told that you were dead."

Natasha sat silently, her hands twisting in her lap. After waiting a little longer for a reply that did not come, Nikolai continued.

"What do you want, Natasha?" he asked, cutting straight to the chase.

Natasha's green eyes hardened for a moment as she plunged her hand into her pocket.

Nikolai tensed in his chair, ready to dive to the floor and grab his gun from his desk drawer should Natasha produce a weapon, but instead, Natasha simply pulled out a USB stick. She stared at it for a long moment before leaning forward and placing it carefully on his desk.

"I wanted to give you this," she said quietly. "It was the only thing inside Ernesto Silva's safe, so I hope it's what you wanted."

Nikolai leaned forward, taking the USB stick in his slender fingers and fingering it contemplatively.

"You completed the mission," he said.

Natasha nodded, her eyes filled with an almost angry energy.

"Yes," she said. "I've always completed the missions the KGB has given me."

Nikolai shot her a wry smile.

"With the exception of one," he said softly, not missing the way Natasha's breath hitched and her face drained a little of colour at the very mention of the Ivanov job. "Now, as much as I appreciate it, you didn't come here to give me a USB stick. Why are you really here?"

Natasha was silent for a long while, a multitude of micro-expressions flitting over her face: fear, sadness, anger, and above all, desperation. Nikolai waited patiently for her to speak, knowing that whatever had brought her here could not be rushed.

"I want out," she said finally, unable to keep the quiver from her voice. "I want... I want to leave the KGB."

Nikolai cocked his head to the side, watching Natasha curiously. She squirmed under his scrutiny, unable or unwilling to hide her true emotions from him.

"I see," he said, after a long while. "And why should I grant you that?"

Natasha froze. She stared at his desk as if in disbelief, her chest the only part of her that was moving as her breathing quickened and intensified. Very gradually, a faint trembling returned to her body. This was very different to her shakes of fear earlier, however; it seemed now that she was vibrating with excitement.

"So it's possible then?" she asked, her eyes snapping up to meet his hungrily. "I can leave? I can be free?"

Nikolai smiled.

"Of course," he chuckled. "You just need to convince me. Why should I let you go?"

He could practically see the steam coming out of her ears as the cogs whirred in her mind. She swallowed convulsively several times, her previously pale face now flushed with a strange mixture of panic and excitement.

Her eyes darted around as she obviously tried to think of the most compelling argument that could convince him.

"I could bring down the entire KGB," she started, a hysterical edge to her tone. "I could bring disgrace on the whole Russian nation by telling the world how you kidnap little girls and brainwash them into being your killing machines. I could end you. You would be the Director who oversaw the fall of the KGB. Do you want that to be your legacy?"

Nikolai held up his hand to stop her little speech, sighing as he shook his head in disappointment.

"Natasha, please," he said. "I don't give in to threats. You cannot bend my will using force. So let's try again. Why should I let you go?"

Natasha flushed with embarrassment as she lapsed into silence, obviously not having expected her argument to be shut down so quickly and completely.

Nikolai waited patiently, not wanting to exert any pressure on her. He was genuinely curious as to what she would say. He was a fair man. If she gave him a compelling reason, he would release her from the KGB's employment immediately. He was not a tyrant or a slave master. He did not have to be; most Red Room Academy graduates never questioned the lives they were assigned. Most Red Room Academy graduates never yearned for freedom. Natasha was unique in that respect; an anomaly that should not exist.

"I think..." began Natasha, before trailing off, twisting her hands together in frustration as she stared out of the window. The sky was a brilliant blue. Her eyes filled with tears as she stared at it, as if it held some special meaning to her. "I think it's unfair that you took my life away from me. You took away my choices. You made me kill people. You  _sterilised_ me. I want to be free. I want to be able to make my own choices and live my own life. I want... I want to be more than the killer you made me into."

Her last sentence came out almost coy, as if she were ashamed of who she was and what she had become. Perhaps she  _was_ ashamed. She was an excellent KGB agent, but she was not a good person. She was a liar and a killer. She had committed more atrocities in five years than most people ever heard about in their entire lives. Nikolai watched her carefully, seeing the desperate, wistful expression on her face.

"You will never be more than the killer you were made to be," Nikolai said quietly, before reaching into his desk to pull out a Red Room Academy graduate employment waiver form. He scribbled down Natasha's name and signed the bottom of the sheet, before sliding it across the table to Natasha. "You are free to go."

Natasha stared at him blankly. She slowly reached forward to read the paper he had slid towards her, her eyes moving quickly as she read and re-read the form several times.

"What is this?" she asked, her tone strained and her knuckles white.

"It's a waiver form," Nikolai replied. "It releases you from your contract to serve the KGB. If you sign it, you're a free woman."

Natasha stared at him, hope vying with disbelief on her face.

"Is this a trick?" she asked.

Nikolai shook his head honestly.

"No," he said. "If you sign that form, you're free, and you'll never be bothered by the KGB again."

Natasha's eyes were cold and sharp as her gaze bore into his.

"What's the catch?" she demanded.

Nikolai sighed, holding up his hands in an attempt to placate her and show that what he was saying was genuine.

"There is no catch," he said simply. "If you want to leave, you are free to go. But listen to me:  _you will never be more than the killer we made you to be_. If I'm wrong, and you are more than that, then I wish you every happiness in your new life. But I believe that one day, you'll realise that I'm right, and you'll come back. If and when that happens, we'll embrace you again with open arms. You're a killer, Natasha. Madame B told me personally that you were one of the best students she's ever taught. You cannot undo a lifetime of upbringing, conditioning and training. The KGB  _created_ you. We moulded you to become who you are today. You are our Black Widow. You'll never be more."

Natasha was silent for a long while, the anger and bitterness written plain across her face. Nikolai wondered what she was thinking; if she was considering the weight of his words, if she realised just how difficult it would be to change and, more importantly, to convince  _others_ that she had changed.

Reaching forward, she grasped the pen with shaking fingers.

"I'm not the Black Widow," she said quietly, scrawling her signature on the bottom of the form. "My name is Natasha."

 

* * *

 

Clint thought this was possibly the most difficult, emotionally-exhausting call he had ever had to make.

As soon as he had dropped off Natasha on the outskirts of Moscow, he had flown to a nearby valley, away from any curious locals, and video called Director Fury.

He had begun the video call by apologising for the lateness of his getting in contact.

Director Fury had simply looked relieved that he was OK.

Then, Clint had explained everything that had happened on the mission, from following the Black Widow, to his instincts that she may not be quite the threat that SHIELD thought she was, to saving her life, whisking her away from Ernesto Silva's compound, and dropping her off in Moscow so that she could speak to the head of the KGB about getting released from her contract.

That was ten minutes ago.

Since then, Director Fury had remained completely silent, his face getting darker, sweatier and angrier as the implications of Clint's actions sank in.

Clint had tried to break the awkward silence once, but Fury had simply snarled at him – actually  _snarled_ – to shut up and Clint's mouth had snapped closed in record time.

Clint had never before appreciated just how terrifying Director Fury could be. His dark eyes were flashing dangerously, his nostrils expanding and contracting like a bull ready to charge, a sheen of sweat becoming more and more obvious on his forehead. All this and he was not even speaking. Somehow, his complete lack of verbal communication in the ten minutes since Clint had finished relaying his story made things all the more terrifying.

"You defied a direct order," said Fury, finally. "You were ordered to kill the Black Widow, to put a stop to her reign of terror, and you  _saved her life_  instead."

Clint cringed. This was going just as badly as he had feared it would. On the screen, Director Fury was actually gnashing his teeth in anger. Fury was furious. Clint bit his cheek so that he would not start nervously laughing at the irony.

"Yes, sir," he replied.

Director Fury's brows contracted as he glowered at Clint down the camera.

"Tell me why I shouldn't just demote you to cleaning duty right now, Barton," he snapped.

Clint took a shaky breath and held it for a moment. Everything that he had done had been done purely on instinct. How was he supposed to describe the  _feeling_  that the Black Widow could be redeemed to the Director? It was a hunch. He had acted stupidly, recklessly – except, it had not been reckless at all; he had known, in that instinctive, incommunicable way that what he was doing was right.

"I've been a SHIELD agent for 10 years, sir," he began. "I've been on over a thousand missions and the vast majority of those have been completed successfully."

He paused, waiting for Fury's reaction. When Fury gave him a tight nod of acknowledgement, Clint felt a small surge of hope and confidence and ploughed on before he lost his nerve.

"Over that time, I've acquired a lot of skills and technical knowledge, but a large part of what I've learned is impossible to describe. It's just instinct. I know that, on paper, instinct counts for nothing, but in the field, on a mission, it counts an awful lot. I've made decisions in my career that went against what it says in the SHIELD textbooks, but felt like the right course of action at the time. Do you remember the bank hostage situation in New York a few years back? I was ordered to shoot the hostage taker, but my instincts told me that something was wrong, and I was right. The hostage taker was a hostage themselves, ordered by the  _real_  criminal to carry out their dirty work, or their family would be killed."

On the screen, Fury nodded reluctantly.

"I remember," he said begrudgingly. "You saved an innocent man from an unjust death that day."

"And then there was that time when a whole team of us was sent to Poland. My instincts told me that the street was rigged with explosives, and I was right," Clint pressed on. "My instincts have been honed by years of experience on countless missions. It's difficult to explain, but I trust my instincts; they're almost always right."

Fury nodded in agreement, although the frown was still fixed firmly on his face.

"When I went after Natasha in Sao Paulo, I had a... a strange feeling," Clint continued. "It was the mission brief you gave me, sir. Something about it didn't make sense. How could a spy just pop up out of nowhere with a perfectly-honed skill set? It doesn't happen, you  _know_  it doesn't work like that that; it takes time, and yet there she was, freshly recruited and already perfect. It bothered me. My instincts told me that something deeper was going on, something we didn't know or we'd overlooked. So rather than just shooting her on sight, I decided to follow her and see what happened."

Director Fury's face had taken on its menacing look again, but Clint ploughed on, desperate to make him understand exactly why he had done what he had, why Natasha deserved a shot at redemption.

"The look on her face while she was on the mission, sir, she looked lost, haunted almost. She just looked so resigned and hopeless and then later, I heard her on the listening device. She was asking the drug lord to kill her, and she meant it. I could hear that she meant it."

Fury's face briefly softened at hearing Clint's strained tone. He was well aware of Clint's difficult childhood and his struggles with depression when his father's abuse had been at its highest. He had been Clint's mentor when he had first started at SHIELD, and Clint had told him everything.

"When I saved her life, it was instinct. I had felt before that something was wrong, and seeing and hearing her like that had confirmed it. My instincts told me that there was more going on than met the eye, so I saved her. And I'd do it again."

Clint set his jaw defiantly, waiting for Director Fury to interrupt and reprimand him for such a brazen display of defiance, but the expected interruption did not come. Fury simply stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

"I took her back to the safe house and we talked. She told me that she wanted to leave the KGB. She doesn't want to be their killer anymore."

At this point, Fury's already-tested patience passed its breaking point.

"Agent Barton, you've been duped," he said bluntly. "This is the Black Widow we're talking about. Of course she's going to tell you that she wants to leave the KGB. She knew that you'd kill her if she said anything else."

Clint shook his head in frustration. He had to make Fury understand. Natasha may be an excellent liar, but Clint just  _knew_  that everything she had said to him had been the truth.

"You're wrong," he shot back immediately. "And she's not 'the Black Widow'; her name is Natasha. She told me... things. With all due respect, sir, I don't think she has been acting of her own volition."

Director Fury's face twisted into a confused expression.

"Explain," he ordered.

Clint paused. The things that Natasha had told him had been private. They were terrible, personal things that were obviously not intended to be shared beyond the two of them. And yet, with Director Fury glaring at him – with Natasha's life in the balance – he saw no other choice but to tell Fury what she had told him. Sending off a silent apology to Natasha, he reluctantly continued.

"I believe the KGB has been using her against her will," he said quietly. "She told me that she was kidnapped as a young child and brought up in some kind of special school for spies. She was brought up to kill and follow orders. Any students who failed to comply were killed. She became a perfect agent in order to survive, and when she graduated, she became the property of the KGB. She was not acting of her own free will, sir. She was brainwashed and enslaved."

Clint held his breath. The air seemed thick and heavy in the wake of his terrible revelation about Natasha's past. Fury was silent, clearly thinking over the new information very carefully.

"She could have been lying," said Fury eventually. His tone was gentler this time, less aggressive.

Clint shook his head, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I don't think so," said Clint. "My instincts tell me she was telling the truth. It explains how she suddenly appeared out of nowhere, fully trained and deadly from the start. And she's young, sir. I'd guess her age is in the low 20s. Considering that she first appeared five years ago, she  _must_ have started her training as a child. Her story adds up."

Fury was silent for a long time, turning things over in his mind. Finally, he sighed, running a hand down his tired face.

"What do you want to happen to her, Agent Barton?" he asked flatly.

Clint stood up a little straighter, his heart rate increasing as he realised that Fury was not outright dismissing his argument.

"Don't kill her," he said immediately. "If I'm right and she's telling the truth, then she hasn't been acting of her own free will. Give her a chance to heal. Give her a chance to redeem herself. Let her join SHIELD instead; she'd be a great agent. Let her use her skills for good."

Fury fell silent for a long while, a frown creasing his forehead as his eyes stared down the camera. Clint tried not to fidget uncomfortably. After a long while, Fury gave a long exhale, the tension leaving his shoulders as the frown slid off his face.

"You're one of my best agents," said Fury. "So far in your career, your judgement has been spot on."

Another pause.

Then the frown returned.

"She's your responsibility," continued Fury, crossing his arms as he looked at Clint seriously through the camera. "You have to provide her with accommodation and help her adjust to freedom. Do you trust her to be around your family?"

Clint set his jaw and gave Fury a steely look as he clenched his fists.

"I'll never let anyone hurt my family," he said quietly. "And yes, I trust her not to harm them. I would never have saved her if I thought she was too dangerous or deranged to reform."

Fury gave him a long, hard look before giving him a small nod.

"When you believe she's ready to go on some trial missions, it'll be just the two of you. I'm not going to risk the lives of any other agents. If the time comes when you trust her enough to go on a mission together, that's your choice, but I'm not imposing that choice on anyone else."

Clint nodded immediately.

"Of course, sir. I understand," he said. "Thank you, sir."

Fury grunted in response, a supremely displeased expression on his face.

"Has it occurred to you that she may just be playing you in order to infiltrate SHIELD?" he asked.

Clint nodded. He was a professional. Scepticism was part of the job. He trusted his instincts, yes, but that did not mean he did not exercise caution.

"Yes. I'll keep an eye on her," he promised.

"And if it turns out she's a mole, will you be able to kill her?" said Fury.

Clint paused, his hands twitching by his sides. Every part of him was screaming that Natasha was telling the truth. But what if she was lying? What if this was all part of an elaborate plan to infiltrate SHIELD?

"I'll do what needs to be done," he said finally.

Fury nodded, bringing up a hand to rub his chin absentmindedly.

"If Natasha does well in the trial missions and passes psychological evaluations and the SHIELD entry tests, then we'll  _talk_ about her becoming a Level 1 SHIELD agent. No guarantees," he said.

"She's at least as good as a Level 7," Clint argued.

Fury crossed his arms, his trademark glare returning with abundance.

"Level 1," he snapped. "Those are my terms. She has to  _earn_ her place in SHIELD. She must prove that she's worthy of being a part of our organisation."

After a second of hesitation, Clint nodded reluctantly. It seemed that this was the best deal he was going to be able to secure. He had had to work hard just to get Fury to agree to the idea of letting her live. He did not want to push his luck.

"Yes, sir," he replied graciously. "Thank you, sir."

Fury grunted again, narrowing his eyes.

"For the record, I don't like this," said Fury, his voice a low rumble. "I don't trust her."

Clint raised his eyebrows as his finger hovered over the button to terminate the video call.

"You don't trust anyone," he said, then pressed down on the button.

 

* * *

 

Natasha hurried along the Moscow streets, pulling her suitcase behind her as she kept her head down, avoiding eye contact with the people sharing the pavement alongside her.

She was in a daze. Hope warred with panic inside her. She was free.  _Free_. Nikolai Patrushev had set her free from her contract to serve the KGB.

She was having a hard time believing it. She felt as though at any moment someone would walk up to her and announce that the whole thing was a joke, before whipping out a gun and putting a bullet in her head.

She needed to see Clint. Seeing him, saying the words out loud, would surely make it seem more real.

She was not sure why she had such a strong fondness for the archer after such a short amount of time knowing him. Perhaps it was his easy-going nature. Perhaps it was the way he was open and honest with her. Perhaps it was because he treated her like an actual human being rather than simply an asset. She could count the number of people who had ever treated her like that on one hand.

The suitcase bumped against the back of her legs. After she had signed the waiver form, she had rushed back to her flat to grab a few of her possessions, not daring to stay for any longer than was necessary in case Nikolai changed his mind and sent Dmitry in to kill her. The suitcase was mainly filled with books. She had not bothered to take any clothes or toiletries. She could buy those from anywhere. Her book collection, on the other hand, had taken her years to curate. Wherever life was going to lead her now, she wanted to have her books with her.

She gripped the handle of her suitcase tightly, her skin pinching white with the strength of her grip. She was breathing deeply, blindly walking towards her and Clint's pre-arranged rendezvous point. Before they had parted, they had promised to meet up, hopefully so she could begin her new life, but at the very least to inform one another of how their conversations had gone with their respective directors. Natasha wondered if Clint had managed to convince the head of SHIELD that she deserved not to be killed.

Her heartbeat increased incrementally. Nikolai Patrushev's words were still echoing in her head, stinging her painfully each time she recalled what he had said. Nikolai had been utterly convinced that she would never become more than the monster the KGB had raised her to be. He had admitted quite openly that he was happy to release her from her contract, if only because he was so confident that, one day, she would realise her own worthlessness and return.

She wondered if it were true.

She bit down on her lip as she attempted to push the ugly thoughts away. It did not work. She was a monster, she knew that. She had murdered, stolen and lied all her life. She had tortured little Valentina Drakova to death. She had murdered James, one of the only two people in her life who she could call a friend.

She blinked hard to stop herself from crying. Unbidden, the malevolent thoughts continued to devour her until, suddenly, she was standing next to a fountain in the middle of a square; the rendezvous point.

She drew in a shaky breath, suddenly nervous.

Good things never happened to her. Freedom was now so close that she could taste it, but, still, she did not dare to believe it. She did not deserve the chance to start a new life, not after all the lives she herself had taken. Her eyes darted around the square, seeking out anyone or anything that was out of the ordinary. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest, panic constricting her throat. Surely something was going to happen, she thought. The universe would put things right – she would be struck by lightning, she would trip and crack her head open, she would be pricked with the poisoned tip of an umbrella – something would happen to put her back in her place at the bottom of the pile.

Nothing happened.

Families walked past, children laughed, pigeons flapped and cars rumbled by, but nothing happened to harm Natasha. For once, the universe was on her side, cutting her a break.

A crowd of schoolchildren swarmed past and as they moved away, she suddenly had a clear view of Clint walking casually towards her across the open square, dark sunglasses shielding his eyes and a jaunty grin on his face.

Natasha found herself returning the smile instinctively, her whole body instantly feeling lighter and less tense.

"You're alive," said Clint in greeting, pulling her in for a brief hug. "That's a good sign."

Natasha returned the hug gingerly. It felt strange to hold another person like this. It took her a moment to realise that the last time she had hugged someone had been with James five years previously, shortly before she had graduated. Natasha let go of Clint and stood slightly awkwardly in front of him as he flicked up his sunglasses so that they sat on top of his head.

"How did it go?" he asked, clearly sensing that Natasha was not one for small talk.

Natasha was silent for a moment, the ball of nerves in her stomach intensifying and roiling uncomfortably. She wanted to shout it out, to jump with joy, to let herself smile and laugh and whoop, and yet the feeling of fear that it may all suddenly be snatched away from her held her back from such grand displays of celebration.

Instead, she chewed on her lip for a moment, before daring to glance up to Clint and mumble quietly: "They let me go."

Clint's face broke out into a wide grin. He let out a noticeable sigh of relief as he clapped a hand on Natasha's shoulder.

"That's great news," he said, his smile dimming a little as he noticed how quiet Natasha was being. "Did they, uh, say anything else?"

Natasha swallowed nervously as Nikolai's damning words played in a loop in her head. She wondered whether she should tell Clint what he had said. What if Clint agreed with Nikolai? What if he realised just what a monster she was?

"They said that one day I would return to them," she said stiffly. "They said that one day I'll realise that I'm nothing more than a killer; that I have no place in the world. That the KGB  _is_ my place in the world."

She looked up at Clint, keeping her face perfectly controlled, despite the fact that on the inside she was crumbling. She did not want to see the look of horror and revulsion appear on Clint's face when he realised that Nikolai was right, but somehow she could not look away.

The horror and revulsion never appeared, however. In its place was anger but, to Natasha's amazement, it was not directed at her.

"Those scumbags," he growled, a deep frown creasing his forehead. "That's fucking cold. Try to forget what they said, OK? They're just trying to mess with your head."

Natasha nodded numbly, not knowing what to say, and before she knew it, Clint was pulling her in for another hug, a tighter one this time, one that radiated his fiercely protective nature. She felt herself instinctively tense at the contact, but forced herself to relax. Clint was not going to attack her. He was not an enemy.

It felt strange to think of someone in those terms: not an enemy. Clint was... a friend? Maybe not yet, but for the first time, she dared to hope that, one day, they may form a friendship.

"Let's prove them wrong," he said, smiling gently as he pulled away.

Natasha found herself smiling back as she nodded.

"How did things go with the Director of SHIELD?" she asked, as they started to weave their way through the crowd towards where Clint had parked his motorbike.

Clint exhaled dramatically, shooting her a tired grin, and it was only then that Natasha realised how exhausted he looked.

"Much better than I was expecting," he replied. "He agreed not to kill you and I managed to convince him that you deserve a chance to prove yourself. He said that you have to stay under my supervision and that, when you're ready, you can do some trial missions, just the two of us. Then, if you decide you want to, you can apply to become a Level 1 SHIELD agent. You'd have to undergo psychological evaluation and pass the entry tests, but that's standard procedure."

Natasha was quiet for a moment, a smile spreading over her face as what Clint had just said sank in.

"I get a choice?" she asked, turning to look at Clint, her eyes filled with hope. "About whether I want to join SHIELD?"

Clint shot her a strange look in return, somewhere between sadness and surprise.

"Of course," he said. "You're free now. You have a choice in everything."

Natasha felt a lump form in her throat. Suddenly, freedom felt overwhelming. She had a choice in  _everything_. That was so much, perhaps too much, to think about. She had never been given choices before. From her very first memory to the present day, choices had been made for her, her life had been strictly regimented and controlled.

And now, there were choices everywhere. Her entire future was an ocean of uncertain possibilities, and it frightened her.

"You said I have to stay under your supervision," she said, changing the subject. "Where are we going, a SHIELD base?"

Clint chuckled, pulling out his keys as they finally got to his motorbike. It was the same one that they had used to escape from Ernesto Silva's compound in Sao Paulo. It was strange to think that that was only 24 hours ago.

"Nope," said Clint, taking her suitcase and securing it to the back of the motorbike, before pulling out two helmets and passing one to her as he pulled on his own. "We're going to my house."

Natasha's ears pricked up in interest.

"In America?" she said.

Clint nodded.

"You're gonna love it," he enthused. "I have a big farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It's quiet and peaceful and the sky's so big and blue."

They clambered onto the motorbike. Clint started it up and they quickly made their way down the Moscow streets, heading towards the countryside.

Natasha's hands tightened around Clint's waist as they sped along. James had thought that freedom looked like a big blue sky. It seemed that, finally, she was going to experience freedom, a real and metaphorical big blue sky, away from Russia and its KGB-tainted memories.

She would no longer be forced to murder and lie and steal. She would no longer have someone else's agenda imposed upon her. She would get to make  _choices_. She would live on a farm far away from other people. She would finally have time to herself, no sharing a dormitory with other girls, no neighbour about to burst in through the front door to give her her next deadly mission.

Hope surged through her and she allowed herself the luxury of smiling as the roads gradually changed from tarmac to concrete to mud.

They finally pulled up to the Quinjet and Natasha waited patiently as the ramp at the back lowered and Clint pushed the motorbike inside. He waved at her to follow him into the plane and she did so obediently.

The sky was rapidly darkening. Night was falling. It seemed almost unbelievable that the last time she had seen the sun set, she had been packing up her parachute, completely unaware of waiver forms and the existence of Clint Barton.

"Strap in and get comfy," he said, shooting her a smile as he started up the Quinjet's engines. "It's a long flight back to my house, so you may want to sleep at some point. I promise I won't draw a moustache on your face."

Natasha could not help the snort of laughter that escaped her at the absurd statement. She buckled up next to Clint, watching as they took off vertically, the ground seemingly falling away below them.

They sat in comfortable silence as they rose above the clouds, the cockpit suddenly filled with dazzling moonlight as they broke through the top of the cloud cover.

Natasha finally felt her lingering anxieties melt away. She really was free. The KGB was not going to stop her from leaving. This was real. She stared out of the window at the tops of the clouds below. She felt nervous, tearful and excited.

Her whole life, she had yearned for freedom. To finally have it was indescribable. It was amazing, overwhelming, beautiful, wonderful, terrifying.

She lifted her gaze upwards to look up at the moon.

It was perfectly round. Big and bright. She wondered if Elena was up there with James, watching over her; her guardian angels.

Next to her, she heard Clint shift quietly in his seat; a close, comforting presence.

She smiled, allowing her eyes to slip closed.

She fell asleep to the hum of the engines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FREEDOM: AHHH! Yes! She is finally free! After torturing you for 18 chapters, I thought it was about time.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Nikolai Patrushev was indeed the head of the Russian intelligence services in 2007. Obviously, though, his actions as described in this chapter are completely fictional ;)
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "The Farmhouse" and will examine how she adjusts to life as a free woman. She is extremely damaged from the horrific treatment she's received as a Red Room Academy student and KGB agent. How will the Barton family react to her? How will she react to them? There will be angst but also lots of fluff, so if you enjoyed the chapter "Strawberries" you should enjoy the next chapter <3
> 
> READERS: My lovelies, you've gone a bit quiet - are you still there? Are you still enjoying this? I love reading your comments, so please don't be shy, say hi :)


	19. The Farmhouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY: Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. It usually takes me around a week to write one chapter, but this one took twice as long! This is because this chapter is a *little* bit longer than I expected. OK, a lot longer. 16,531 words long, to be exact! I just love writing about angst, fluff, Natasha's mind and her relationships with other people, and this chapter has all of that in bucket-loads. I hope the length makes up for the delay! Enjoy!
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: Some PTSD symptoms. Also a very brief mention of the events that took place in Chapter 12: Lessons In Seduction.
> 
> ART: As always, I've created [ chapter art](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/157689522006/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter) to go with this chapter on my Tumblr :)

2007 – Aged 23

 

* * *

 

Natasha was awoken by Clint gently shaking her shoulder.

She sat upright immediately, blinking the sleep from her eyes, instantly alert. By instinct, her hand shot inside her jacket, reaching for a knife that she kept on her person at all times.

Her hand closed around empty space.

For a moment, she panicked, her heart rate accelerating as adrenaline surged through her system. She never went anywhere without her knife.

"Easy there," Clint said softly. "You handed over your weapons when we boarded the Quinjet, remember."

Natasha relaxed, letting out a long exhale as she slumped back in her seat. The events of the previous day came back to her in a rush: Nikolai Patrushev, the KGB headquarters, freedom. She gave Clint a shaky smile, suddenly feeling exhausted despite the fact that she had slept for most of the flight.

"Sorry," she muttered, feeling a little embarrassed by her reaction.

She was free now. Clint was not an enemy. She had to stop acting like she was some kind of over-paranoid freak. She did not want Clint to see just how damaged she was.

"No bother," smiled Clint, waving his hand casually. "I just wanted to give you a heads up that we're about 5 minutes away from landing."

Natasha looked out of the window.

They were descending gradually. The soft, orange evening light cast the entire landscape in a beautiful, almost ethereal glow. Natasha watched silently as the scene below grew bigger and bigger. Large rolling hills gave the landscape shape, adorned with trees and meadows. They were deep in the countryside; Natasha could not see a town in any direction for miles around.

As they got lower, Natasha could clearly make out the pale blue roof of Clint's farmhouse. It was surrounded by meadows, with a large wood sloping off towards the back of the house. There was a section of the meadow that had been cut away in a neat rectangle, and Natasha realised that it was this rectangle that the Quinjet was slowly descending towards.

Natasha watched in admiration as Clint expertly manipulated the controls, bringing the plane down in a smooth, controlled landing. There was a slight bump as the Quinjet landed on the dry, springy grass and then the engines shut down, leaving a quietness in their wake.

"Welcome home," said Clint, shooting her a grin as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

 _Home_.

The word felt foreign and alien as Natasha tried it out in her mind. She had never experienced the feeling of home before. The Red Room Academy and her flat in Moscow had been places where she had lived, but they had never felt like home.

She bit down on her lip, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed and out of her depth.

Luckily, Clint did not seem to notice that anything was amiss as she unbuckled her seatbelt and stood up, stretching out the kinks in her back as she did so.

She followed him towards the back of the Quinjet, grabbing her suitcase filled with books on the way, as the ramp at the back of the plane slowly lowered onto the ground.

Warm, sweet air wafted in through the widening gap. Natasha found herself breathing it in deeply; she had not realised how stale the air had become during the flight. The scent of flowers drifted in from the meadow and Natasha walked down the ramp tentatively as it finally lowered all the way to the ground.

She walked out into the soft orange light, the fading heat of the evening sun warming her as it hit her face. She took a deep breath as she looked around the meadow. It was beautiful. The long grass was filled with flowers of every colour; a riot of greens, reds, yellows, purples, oranges and pinks. It reminded her of the fields around the Red Room Academy.

Suddenly, she was hit by a vivid memory of walking through those fields with Elena, dry grass underfoot, strawberries in the backpacks, hunting for poppies and buttercups to give to one another.

_I love you._

_Will we be best friends forever?_

_Always._

She discreetly brought up her sleeve to rub her suddenly moistened eyes. The memory faded slowly, leaving her shivering a little. Clint turned around and mistakenly attributed it to the cooling temperature, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to her before she could protest.

She pulled on the jacket reluctantly. It was heavy and too big for her, but it was warm and it smelled like Clint. Natasha found that she did not mind it.

"This way," said Clint, leading her along a little path that cut through the meadow and lead up towards his house.

Natasha was silent as they traipsed through the grass and flowers towards his home. As they drew nearer, Natasha became aware of the love that had obviously been poured into the dwelling.

It was a large wooden house with two storeys. The roof was a pale blue and the walls were a warm, cream colour. The walls looked as though they had been painted by hand – some of the paint was peeling a little – and made the entire house look homely and welcoming. The sizeable windows had white wooden grids separating the glass into smaller little squares, with dark green window shutters adorning either side of them. There was a raised porch that led to the light green front door, beside which a faded American flag hung proudly from a stout flagpole, in amongst a collection of mismatched wooden and shell wind chimes.

The entire house had a warm, simple, rustic feel to it. It was very different to the cold, sterile look of the Red Room Academy or the griminess of her flat in Moscow. Natasha liked it.

As they walked nearer, Natasha noticed that there was country music playing from inside the house, the notes pouring out of one of the windows along with the smell of something cooking. Natasha suddenly wondered who Clint lived with, if he was married, if he had children. She felt foolish for not thinking of it sooner. Clint looked as though he were in his mid-thirties, so it made perfect sense that he would have a family. When Clint had told her that she was to come and live with him, she had mistakenly imagined it would be just the two of them. She was simply not used to the idea of having a family.

Clint hurried a little faster as the approached the porch, his face lighting up as he bounded enthusiastically up the wooden steps, urging Natasha to follow him. By the time he had flung open the front door, he looked positively radiant, a large smile lighting up his face in a way that Natasha had not seen before, the corners of his eyes crinkling up with innocent delight as he walked into his home.

Natasha followed silently, stopping when she saw a woman walking out of what she assumed was the kitchen and giving Clint just as big a smile as he was giving her. Natasha watched as the couple embraced, holding one another gently as they lay kisses on one another's noses.

Natasha stood there awkwardly, feeling uncomfortably out of place in this intimate family scene. She looked down at the ground as she stood as still as she could, not wanting to interrupt their reunion. She kept her muscles carefully rigid, hoping to blend into the background as they rested their heads on one another's shoulders.

Clint's voice interrupted her after a moment, making her look up, although her muscles were still locked into place, impotent and unsure of what to do.

"Natasha, this is my wife Laura," he said. "Laura, meet Natasha."

Natasha stepped forward a little stiffly and held out her hand for a handshake, but instead, Laura sprang forward and embraced her in a warm hug, a big smile on her face as she held Natasha gently but firmly.

Natasha swallowed back the feeling of panic at being in such close proximity with a stranger and patted her gingerly on the back, trying to make herself relax so that Laura would not think she were strange. For all her training to hide her true emotions, she was somehow unable to do so now. It frustrated her as much as it frightened her.

"Natasha!" said Laura, pulling back and beaming at her. "It's lovely to meet you. Can I call you Nat?"

Natasha blinked at her, overwhelmed by the woman's friendliness. Laura Barton was about the same height as Natasha, with thick wavy brown hair that hung down past her shoulders, and warm brown eyes that exuded her caring nature. Her hands had entwined themselves with Natasha's, and Natasha found herself automatically taking note of their texture and making deductions; Laura's hands were soft, which suggested she worked a job that did not involve hard labour. Natasha shook herself, realising that Laura had asked a question and was waiting patiently for her response.

"Um, no," she said, before blushing furiously because, God damn it, could she  _be_ any more rude? Her mind whirred as she grasped at something friendly to say to break the ice, but before she could speak, Laura had let go of her hands and given her a little wink.

"OK, Nat," she said simply, before taking Natasha by the arm and taking her into the kitchen.

Natasha followed, holding her suitcase in her free hand, seemingly struck dumb by the fact that Laura had taken an instant liking to her and was apparently happy to call her 'Nat' whether she liked it or not. 'Nat' seemed too friendly, too familiar. She had not had a friend for five years; it was almost too much for her to bear, to have someone treat her like a real person again.

"This is the kitchen," said Laura, gesturing around the large room. "I'll show you how to use the oven and everything later."

The kitchen was large, with warm cream walls and pots hanging from hooks embedded in the walls. The room had an old, rustic feel, with bookcases, photographs and paintings on the walls. Some dreamcatchers and lanterns hung from the ceiling and there was a large, wooden table in the centre of the room. The whole room was filled with a wonderful aroma of herbs and vegetables. Natasha wondered what was cooking; it smelled amazing.

Before she could ask, Laura pulled her to the next room.

"Here's the living room," she said. "It's a nice place to be if you want to relax."

Natasha had to agree, it looked like a perfect place to unwind. There were large windows through which the evening light was streaming in, giving the place an open, airy, peaceful feel. The furniture was a hodge-podge of mismatched sofas, armchairs and beanbags. On the walls, again, were shelves upon shelves of books. Natasha looked at them hungrily.

Laura must have caught her expression, because she laughed gently and said: "You like to read too, huh?"

Without waiting for an answer, she pulled Natasha towards the stairs.

"Let me show you to your room," she said.

The wooden stairs creaked a little as they climbed them. Natasha found herself automatically walking on the edges so as to minimise the amount of noise she made, a habit drilled into her from the years she had spent at the Red Room Academy.

They crossed the landing and stopped in front of a door at the end of the little corridor. Laura finally unlinked her arm from Natasha's in order to open it. They stepped inside and Natasha gave a small gasp.

The bedroom itself was nothing to write home about. It was small, containing a single bed covered with what looked like hand-made blankets. The walls were a calm, pale blue and there were more little dreamcatchers hanging from the ceiling. A wooden dresser and a white chest of drawers were squashed into one side of the room, a fine layer of dust covering the tops.

No, what made Natasha gasp was the view out of the small window. It was spectacular. Despite the dying light, Natasha could see the meadow, full of flowers, gently sloping down towards a large thicket of trees that extended for a good half-mile. Beyond that, rolling hills stretched as far as the eye could see. Just as Clint had promised, the sky stretched out, a wide beautiful canvas painted with the dark blues, oranges and pinks of dusk. It looked so quiet, so tranquil, so far away from Moscow with its grimy city streets and loud beeping cars.

Natasha had to take a few deep breaths to compose herself; she did not want Laura to see her cry. This was too much, too beautiful, for someone like her.

"Do you work for SHIELD as well?" she asked, in an attempt to deflect Laura's attention away from her own fragile state.

Laura laughed, a light, tinkling sound, as she shook her head.

"No, I leave the world-saving to Clint," she said. "I'm a writer. I write romance novels mainly, as well as some self-help books."

A writer, like Elena had wanted to be.

_I'd like to be a writer._

_I still like to make up stories in my head, even though we stopped playing our imagination games years ago._

Natasha bit down on her lip, desperately fighting the sudden urge to cry. It had been years since Elena had died, but it still hurt.

Almost immediately afterwards, another thought hit her hard: Laura was not a SHIELD agent. That meant that, presumably, she did not know about her past. She did not know about the terrible things she had done as the Black Widow. That must be why she was being so nice to her: because she simply did not know who she really was.

Natasha suddenly felt awful, weighed down more than she expected by the knowledge that Laura would no doubt hate her the moment she learnt the truth.

"Do you have clothes and things?" asked Laura, looking down at the suitcase in Natasha's hand.

Natasha shook her head as she looked down at the floor, suddenly ashamed to even make eye contact with someone as pure and innocent as Laura. She did not feel worthy of even breathing the same air.

"No, I'm sorry, I only brought my books," she mumbled.

When she finally dared to look back up, she saw that Laura looked surprised but was smiling nonetheless.

"No worries," she said brightly. "We'll take you shopping and you can share our things. Everything here is for you too, so don't feel shy about using our stuff. You don't need to ask for permission."

Natasha simply stared back. Everything at the Red Room Academy had been shared, she supposed, but that had been out of necessity, not kindness. She did not understand why Laura and Clint would want to share their things with her, when it was not a necessity.

She wondered if they were strange for being so generous, or if  _she_  was strange to think of it as such. She was not sure. She had not had a normal upbringing. 'Normal' was not a concept that she had a particularly good grasp of.

Laura seemed to sense her discomfort as she took a step back, giving Natasha some more space.

"Dinner will be ready later," said Laura, tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear as she moved towards the door. "I'll call you when it's ready."

Natasha nodded tightly as Laura closed the door behind her. She stood still for a moment, listening as Laura's footsteps receded and went down the stairs. Only when Laura's footsteps faded completely did she let out a breath that she had not even realised she had been holding, and sit down shakily on the bed.

For a few minutes, she sat completely still, counting her breaths as she attempted to regain control over her body. Her heart was hammering inside her chest, her palms were sweaty and she felt lightheaded. There was so much to take in: Clint, Laura, the house, the fact that this house was now her home, the fact that she was  _free_.

There was so much that it felt as though her head was going to burst, like she was going to drown or lose her mind from the intensity of it all.

After a while, her heart rate slowed, and Natasha swung her legs so that she was sitting on the bed properly, turning to look once more out of the window.

By now, the sun had set completely and the sky was a dark, navy blue. The full moon shone down, big and bright, illuminating the whole meadow. In the sky, little stars were becoming visible as the light from the sun sank further and further below the horizon. Natasha bet that the sky must look stunning in the middle of the night out here, like those long-exposure photographs that she had seen in astronomy books.

She gazed out of the window, letting her eyes adjust fully to the darkness and just watching the world outside. It was still and peaceful, beautiful and dark and wild. A faint breeze was whispering in the grass and wildflowers, making them sway gently. Natasha stared at the gorgeous landscape, easily as beautiful in its night-time robes of navy and silver as it was in its more colourful daywear.

A tear slowly made its way down her cheek as she stared out into the night. Everything was overwhelming: the beauty of Clint and Laura's home, the kindness that they were showing her, the feeling of being free, unowned by anybody.

After a while, the tears came thick and fast. She lay down on the bed, burying her face in the pillow as she cried silently, her entire body shaking with relief that the KGB had finally let her go.

She was free. Really, truly free. It was scary and confusing and intense, and she was depressed thinking about how Laura would hate her when she found out about Natasha's past, but it was better than being the KGB's slave.

She felt as though she was walking on a knife edge between elation and despair, joy and misery. She was torn between the urge to go and do everything at once and the urge to curl up into a ball and hide away from the world. Her head felt heavy, tired and full of too many thoughts to process, so she just lay there, allowing herself to turn into marble, losing herself in the present moment and letting her mind perfectly, blissfully blank.

All she could feel was the warmth of the blankets underneath her. Outside, an owl hooted. It was a pleasant sound. She closed her eyes to better listen to it. At some point, she may have fallen asleep, but she was not sure; it was difficult to keep track of time when she allowed her mind to shut down and turn itself into marble.

After a while though – it could have been 30 minutes or several hours – she was pulled from her calm, blank headspace by Laura's voice floating up the stairs.

"Nataa-sha," she sing-songed. "Dinner's ready!"

Natasha slowly got up from the bed, rubbing her eyes tiredly and stretching out her legs.

It was strange; usually she could function with very little sleep at all, but now she felt exhausted despite the fact that she had slept almost the entire flight from Russia to the US.

Perhaps it was the intensity of everything that was happening that was exhausting her. Whatever it was, she did not like it. She liked to be fully alert at all times when she was awake, ready to react to any possible threat or attack. Madame B had taught her that she must always be prepared to spring into action.

She rolled off the bed and got to her feet, cat-like. Walking the few steps it took her to cross the tiny bedroom, she slipped into the hallway and down the stairs, following the mouth-watering smell that was wafting up from the kitchen.

She crossed the living room, glancing once again at the books that lined the walls. Remembering that Laura was a writer, she wondered if Laura had written any of them. The question was perfectly ready on the tip of her tongue, when she stepped into the kitchen and stopped dead.

"Mama! Ook. Ook."

At the table was little boy. He was sat in a high chair and looked around one year old. He had Laura's brown hair and Clint's blue eyes. He was pointing a plump finger in Natasha's direction, a wide smile splitting his face as he kicked his legs excitedly.

"Dada! Ook."

Clint appeared by Natasha's side, carrying some plates and cutlery. He dumped the cutlery in Natasha's hand, giving her a wink as he placed the plates on the table.

Natasha cottoned on and set the table according to where Clint had placed the plates. She put a little plastic bowl in front of the baby boy.

"Natasha, this is our son Cooper," said Clint, smiling. "Cooper, meet Auntie Nat."

Natasha jerked at the nickname, altogether shocked and a little disturbed by it. She felt she had no place being around a baby. She had not received any training on how to interact with children, apart from how to best kidnap, manipulate and kill them. She thought of little Valentina Drakova and took an unconscious step back away from Cooper.

Clint laid a cautious hand on her back, guiding her back towards her seat. Natasha sat down slowly, trying to calm her hammering heart.

She wished she was still in her marble headspace; things were so much easier when she did not have to think. She did not think Clint or Laura would appreciate her being so obviously mentally absent, however, so she forced herself to sit there rigidly, her hands clasped tight as she resolutely ignored the temptation to turn to marble.

Cooper gave a little gurgle, followed by a laugh, as he reached his hands out towards Natasha, despite the fact that she was sat on the opposite side of the wide table. He was grinning at her excitedly. Natasha smiled weakly back.

"Dinner is homemade vegetable pie," announced Laura, as she placed a huge, steaming pie in the middle of the table. "We grow all our own vegetables and it's all totally organic," she added, for Natasha's benefit, giving her a smile as she sat down next to Clint.

"Mmm... Smells amazing, darlin'," said Clint, giving her a brief kiss on the cheek as he stood up to cut up the pie and serve it onto everyone's plates. "You hungry, Natasha?"

As if on cue, Natasha's stomach growled noisily, causing Laura to laugh as Natasha blushed with embarrassment.

"Uh. Yes, quite hungry," she said, pleased with how her voice did not reveal her sudden nerves. "This looks really good, Laura."

Laura's eyes crinkled with genuine pleasure at the compliment, and Natasha's heart sank further at how much it would hurt when Laura found out the truth about her.

Clint heaped several large chunks of pie onto her plate before serving Laura and himself and putting some baby food in front of Cooper.

"Dig in!" he said, and it was all the encouragement Natasha needed to pick up her knife and fork and start eating the homemade pie.

It was delicious. The flaky pastry practically melted on her tongue, giving a rich buttery taste and texture. The vegetables themselves were a mix of carrots, potatoes, sweetcorn, peas and cauliflower in a thick sauce. It smelled good and tasted amazing.

Natasha found herself slowing down just so she could savour each mouthful even more. The food she had been fed at the Red Room Academy had been bland, and when she had graduated she had not bothered to learn how to cook anything particularly exciting. This, on the other hand, was exquisite. She could tell how much effort Laura had put into the meal and it had paid off in a massive way.

"So Natasha," said Clint, when she had almost finished her meal. "Just so you know, while you were sleeping in the Quinjet, I phoned ahead to let Laura know you were coming. She knows all about your past and who you are, and that you're considering joining SHIELD in the future. She knows why you're here. So don't feel like you have to explain yourself. She knows it all already."

Natasha was immensely thankful that she had not had her mouth full when Clint had made that declaration, because she was sure she would have inhaled it if she had.

She put the knife and fork down on her plate slowly, her hands shaking. She looked down at her plate, her appetite mysteriously vanishing into nothing, despite the deliciousness of the food.

She gripped the edge of the table tightly, every muscle in her body awash with hormones and urging her to give in to the fight-or-flight response. She resisted the urge to do either, her breath coming out in sharp gasps as she stared down at the table top, frightened.

She suddenly felt deeply ashamed to be part of this innocent family scene. Clint and Laura were sat close together, their love for one another palpable. Baby Cooper was dribbling some of his baby food. Candles inside lanterns lit the room in a warm, gentle glow. Family pictures and beautiful paintings hung on the walls. It was a perfect picture of domestic normalcy. She had no place here. She could not be more different from the other people in the room.

She buried her head in her hands as she realised, with a rush of shock and confusion, that if Clint had phoned Laura from the Quinjet, then that meant that all this time, when Laura had been treating her with such friendliness and kindness, she had known about Natasha's past.

It made no sense. Perhaps Laura was simply being polite. Any normal person would be repulsed to know that someone like Natasha was under their roof. She wondered if, once she went to bed, Laura and Clint would have a raging argument about whether or not Natasha should be allowed in their house or not. Natasha did not want that to happen. She did not want to cause any distress or ill feelings by her presence. She was hit by a sudden, violent bout of self-hatred. She should not be here. She was a fool to ever come here.

"I'm sorry," she croaked out between her fingers, as she covered her face with shame.

She felt, rather than heard, Laura move closer to her, jumping a little when the other woman rested a hand on her shoulder. Natasha stiffened immediately under the contact.

"What for?" Laura said gently.

Natasha balled her hands into fists, ten sharp little needles of pain flaring up as her fingernails dug into her palms.

It hurt. That was OK. She deserved it.

She remembered shooting her first bullseye at the age of six. She remembered strangling Katerina to death on the Red Room Academy's marble floor. She remembered cutting out Valentina Drakova's tongue. She remembered shooting James.

"I'm a monster," she said quietly, her voice full of so much self-hatred that Laura actually flinched, a shocked expression on her face.

A moment later, though, the shocked expression was gone, to be replaced by a look of heartbreaking sadness. In an instant, Laura had got up and wrapped her arms around Natasha in a tight hug, cradling and rocking her as she made gentle shushing noises.

Natasha gave a small whimper as she allowed Laura to rock her, bringing up her arms after a moment of hesitation to cling tightly back.

"No, no, no," Laura said softly. "Not at all. You were kidnapped. You were brainwashed. Your past is  _not_ your fault, Nat. You didn't have a choice."

Natasha let out a strangled moan as she shook her head numbly. She  _had_ had a choice. Every time she had pulled a trigger, or snapped a neck, or plunged a knife into someone's soft flesh, it had been a choice. She could have refused. She would have been killed for her disobedience, yes, but she could have – she  _should_ have – refused.

But she had not. She was bad. She was a bad person.

"Both Clint and I are here to help you, OK?" Laura continued. "We want to help you recover from all the awful things that they did to you. We want to help in any way we can. When you get more comfortable around us, I think it'll do you good to talk to us about your past, to work through everything, but  _you_ get to dictate the pace, OK? We won't push you to talk about or do anything you're not ready for."

Clint's hand reached out tentatively to stroke her back in small circles.

"We're your family now," he said quietly, holding her gaze with his big blue eyes, which were looking more serious than she had ever seen them before.

_We're your family._

It was a statement and a promise.

Natasha shivered, feeling cold and uneasy.

"I've never had a family before," she said. "Not one that I can remember."

Laura gave her a smile, seemingly pleased that she was finally talking in way that was not filled with such self-loathing.

"What about friends?" said Laura. "If you want to get in touch with anyone, just to let them know you're safe, we have an encrypted line. The KGB won't be able to trace it."

Strawberries, poppies, buttercups.

_Will we be best friends forever? Always._

The Holocaust. Baby piglets. The big blue sky.

_You have to kill me; I forgive you._

"I had two friends," said Natasha, feeling the memories tugging at her consciousness once more, an enormous ocean of love and pain. "Elena and James. But I can't call them."

Laura fished out a packet of tissues from her pocket and handed one to Natasha. She took it silently.

"Why not?" asked Laura.

Natasha did not answer, her eyes drawn to the leftover pie on her plate for some reason. Homemade vegetable pie. It had been wonderfully, ridiculously delicious.

It was the pie that broke her.

Her throat ached as a sob bubbled up from her gut, a long whine of guilt and grief that had seemingly come out of nowhere.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Suddenly, she shuddered violently. It was entirely reflexive and completely out of her control. She heard loud sobbing coming from somewhere in the kitchen. It took her a moment to realise that she was the source of the sound.

She clutched the tissue and brought it up to her face uselessly, soaking the delicate material immediately as the tears flowed out of her in a torrent. It was like a dam bursting; the pie was the final drop of water that was simply too much to hold back. Natasha felt as though she had been holding back her tears for 20 years. After 20 years of pain, the pie was just too much.

Because Elena never had a meal as good as this. Elena never got to taste homemade vegetable pie. Madame B, Vladimir, the KGB – they had all worked together to strip the Red Room Academy girls of a normal life. Instead of homemade pie, they were fed bland, military-grade food. Instead of toys, they were told to play with weapons. Instead of love, they learned to shut off and ignore each and every emotion.

Elena had been killed because she had refused to stop loving Natasha, had refused to stop being her friend. And now Natasha got to be free and eat homemade vegetable pie whilst Elena was cold and still in the ground.

It was not fair.

Natasha could not cope.

Now that she had begun, she could not stop crying.

She was only vaguely aware of Clint and Laura wrapping their arms around her and holding her gently. They were on the peripheries of her awareness. For the most part, her awareness was simply one of pain. She had never allowed herself the truly reflect on everything the Red Room Academy had done to her before. In the past, she had simply accepted it and then stopped herself from ruminating, turning her mind to marble whenever the urge came along.

Here though, now, in the Bartons' farmhouse, she was faced with the reality of what her life could have been like if she had not been kidnapped by Vladimir at three years old. The Bartons had a normal, quiet life. They had a lovingly crafted home in a beautiful meadow. Cooper would never be forced to kill or lie or steal. They had everything that Natasha had always wanted and it  _hurt_ , it hurt so much to finally _see_ it. Before, she had not truly understood freedom. It had always been an abstract concept. But now, now she got to see it first-hand, and it was more wonderful than she ever had imagined, and the pain that that caused her to feel was unbearable.

She was aware that she was sobbing and shaking hysterically. She was crying harder than she had ever cried before in her life. It was as if a plaster had been ripped off a wound too soon, revealing the ugly, oozing mess beneath. She felt raw and exposed, every single stimulus causing an automatic response of pain. Every lovely thing in the Bartons' farmhouse – from the building to the meadow to Clint and Laura themselves – triggered in equal parts anguish and rage that she and Elena had been denied these things all their lives. They had never had a home. They had never had a family. Instead, the Red Room Academy had done all it could to strip them of their humanity.

Natasha felt, very much, that the Red Room Academy had succeeded, that she was less than human, and she hated herself for it.

After a long while, the pain faded, becoming numbed by exhaustion. Her eyelids drooped as she slumped forwards heavily, Clint and Laura's arms around her the only things keeping her from smashing her face into the kitchen table. Her sobs quietened, her throat raw and hurting from crying so much. She wanted to curl up into a ball and fade away from the world. She did not want to think. She did not want to feel.

She was vaguely aware of Clint's strong arms wrapping around her and lifting her gently from her chair. She allowed her eyes to slip closed as exhaustion washed over her, making her limbs feel as heavy as lead.

She could feel the rhythmical movement of Clint walking and after a few moments she could feel that they were going upstairs, as she would bump slightly against Clint's chest with every stair. She could hear Clint and Laura talking in worried, quiet voices, but the sounds seemed to fade into the background.

They stopped for a moment and then started again, and then Natasha could suddenly feel soft bedsheets underneath her.

She opened her eyes a crack and could just about make out Laura bent over her, pulling the warm, handmade blankets over her and tucking her into bed like a child. Natasha's eyes slipped closed as her throat swelled up once more with emotion. She could not ever remember being tucked into bed like this. When Madame B had put her to bed, it had always been in a clinical, impersonal fashion.

"Shh," she heard Laura say, at the same time as she felt a small, soft hand brush along her cheeks, wiping away her tears. "It's OK. We're here. Go to sleep."

Natasha felt the bed dip as both Laura and Clint sat down on the edge of the small bed. She rolled towards them unconsciously, somehow comforted by their presence.

The last thing she remembered, just before she slipped into oblivion, was the two of them very quietly singing some unknown song. It had a simple, beautiful melody and was something about fire and flame.

It lulled Natasha into a deep sleep.

 

* * *

 

They did not talk about Natasha's breakdown.

It seemed that Clint and Laura had been telling the truth when they had said that they would allow her to dictate the pace of her own healing, and Natasha was grateful for it.

She knew that, eventually, she would have to talk and face her demons, but right now, she was not ready. She needed to adjust to her new life before she started digging around in her past. One day she would be ready, but not yet.

She had arrived at the farmhouse one month ago, and in that time she had formed a kind of routine. She would get up each morning and go for a jog around the meadow. Then she would do some chores around the house and read, write or simply sit outside in the meadow, thinking. She thought about a lot of things: Elena, James, the Red Room Academy, Russia, the KGB, SHIELD, freedom, redemption. In the afternoons, she would go back into the house, sometimes watching Cooper play with his toys, sometimes talking to Clint and Laura, sometimes simply retreating to her room.

Around a week after her arrival, Laura had realised that Natasha had been wearing the same clothes for the whole week and had declared they were going on a shopping trip.

The drive to and from the nearest town was a several hour round-trip, and Clint had complained loudly almost the entire time, but Natasha had caught glimpses of him smiling and had known that he was secretly pleased at how well they all seemed to be getting along.

It was amazing really, how quickly they had fitted into each other's lives. Natasha was still unsure about whether they could class themselves as friends, but she certainly felt comfortable with them, and she hoped that, one day, they would be able to turn to one another and declare themselves friends rather than housemates.

It was around a month after she had first arrived that the cookie incident happened.

Natasha had been sitting out in the meadow, reading one of Laura's romance novels, when a shadow fell upon the page she was reading. She looked up to see Clint standing over her and folded down the corner of the page to mark her place before closing the book.

"Howdy," he grinned. "Want to help me bake some cookies for Laura?"

Natasha smiled at the obvious fondness and eagerness in Clint's voice, nodding as she got up, brushing down her jeans to dislodge the bits of grass and pollen that had stuck to her.

"Sure," she said. "What's the occasion?"

Clint shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck as they walked lazily back towards the house.

"There doesn't have to be a reason," he said. "Laura's awesome. Cookies are awesome. Sometimes I like to bake treats for her."

Natasha looked across at Clint, taking in the softness in his eyes and the unconscious smile on his lips as he talked about his wife. It was obvious that he loved her very much.

"Cute," said Natasha, elbowing him in the ribs as he huffed.

"You can't tell anyone!" he said, pretending to be offended. "If you decide to join SHIELD, you can't go around telling people that brave, strong, hard-as-nails Agent Badass Barton cooks cookies in his spare time; I have a reputation to protect."

Natasha clutched at her sides as she laughed hard, tears forming in her eyes and her ribs aching a little by the time her guffaws finally petered out into the occasional giggle.

She had no doubt that Agent Barton was an extremely skilled operative in the field. He had tracked her without her knowledge in Sao Paulo, after all, so she respected him a lot.

It was just that, in the last month, she had seen the private face of Clint Barton. He was a family man, a kind man, a gentle man. He may be brave and strong, but he was in no way a 'badass'. OK, so his outfit may look cool, and his job was exciting, but these were superficial things. On the inside, he was like a puppy; fun, playful and fiercely loyal. Natasha felt privileged that she got to see this side of him; his true self.

"OK, Agent Badass, my lips are sealed," she quipped back, feeling a rush of happiness when she saw him grin in response to her comment.

They kicked off their shoes on the porch, entered the house and headed into the kitchen.

It was just the two of them. Laura had left around half an hour previously, taking Cooper for some vaccinations at the doctors, which meant she was likely to be gone for the next couple of hours at least. Natasha presumed this was why Clint was making the cookies now; so that they would be a surprise for when Laura got home.

"So, do you enjoy baking?" asked Clint, as he fetched various bowls and ingredients from around the kitchen.

Natasha scuffed her toe against the floor as she leaned against the kitchen table. She flushed a little with embarrassment as she replied.

"I've never actually baked before," she admitted.

Clint spun around in shock, a horrified expression on his face, almost dropping a bag of chocolate chips in his haste.

"Never?" he demanded. "You mean you've never made cookies or eaten cookie dough from the bowl or any of that glorious crap?"

Natasha shrugged as she shook her head.

"I only learnt how to cook basic meals in the Red Room Academy and when I graduated I never really bothered to learn how to cook anything exciting," she said. "I guess I've just always seen food as an energy source, rather than something to enjoy."

A hard look settled over Clint's features as he snatched up two aprons and threw one at Natasha. She caught it deftly, surprised by the determined look on Clint's face, and copied his movements in putting on the apron.

"Right, that's it," said Clint. "Today, we're going to make the best cookies ever. Cookie dough eating is mandatory."

Natasha snorted a laugh, before realising that Clint was quite serious. She ducked her head to hide her suddenly watery smile. She found it in equal parts puzzling and heart-warming that he seemed to genuinely care about her. Both he and Laura went out of their way to make sure she felt comfortable and cared for. It was something she was not used to, but she very much liked it.

"OK, Agent Badass, show me your ways of wisdom," she snarked, to hide her sudden tearfulness.

Clint smiled gently, apparently seeing through her facade, but thankfully not commenting on it. He wordlessly placed a large bowl on the worktop and started piling the ingredients next to it. He crossed over to the oven and turned it on to preheat it, before returning to Natasha's side.

She stared down at the ingredients, not knowing what to do first.

"Step one, we put the sugar, butter, vanilla and egg in the bowl," said Clint. "Watch what I do, because you'll be making the next batch."

Natasha stood by his side as Clint poured the various ingredients into the bowl, looking down at the mess. A moment later, Clint picked up the wooden spoon and started mixing the concoction with childlike delight.

Natasha watched, a small smile on her lips as she watched him work. It was clear that he loved cooking, perhaps even more so because he was cooking for Laura. It was beautiful to see. Natasha suspected that what they had was what love looked like. She had never seen any examples of romantic love growing up, and she was not particularly interested in pursuing it herself, but it made her extremely happy to see these two people who were quite obviously devoted to one another in the most intimate way.

Clint stopped stirring, looking pleased with the uniform appearance of the gloop in the bowl.

"Next, we add flour, salt and the chocolate chips," he said, before carefully sifting the new ingredients into the bowl. "You with me so far?"

Natasha nodded, watching as the new ingredients became assimilated into the gooey mass as Clint stirred them in. She had to admit, cooking was starting to look a lot more fun than it had in the past. Perhaps it was because they were doing it together. Perhaps it was because they were making these for Laura. Either way, Natasha was starting to see that cooking could be more than just a way of getting energy into her body; it could be enjoyed in its own right. Cooking and food could be pleasurable.

It was a strange concept – pleasure had never been a consideration at the Red Room Academy, after all – but it was one that she was slowly starting to grasp.

"When did you start learning how to cook?" she asked, watching as he mixed the contents of the bowl in a rhythmical motion.

She noticed the slightest of hesitation in his movements. His rhythm was only interrupted for a millisecond; an untrained eye would never have spotted it, but Natasha was very highly trained and she noticed it immediately. Clint was silent for a moment, as if he were debating internally whether he should answer or not, before he spoke.

"When I was seven," he said, his voice a little tight.

"Seven?" Natasha echoed. "That's very young. Isn't it?"

She added the last bit a little uncertainly. She personally had not learnt to cook at the age of seven. She realised that she had not had a typical childhood, however. Perhaps learning to cook at the age of seven was normal, and the fact she thought it seemed young was simply indicative of the fucked up upbringing she had received.

"It is young, yeah," Clint sighed, before touching his wedding ring. It was an unconscious gesture, but it seemed to calm him, because when he spoke again, his voice was a little less shaky. "My childhood was kind of messed up. My mom ran away when I was seven, and my dad fell into the bottle when she left, so I had to learn pretty quick how to look after myself."

Natasha reached out to rub his back, before quickly withdrawing her hand. She was not sure if her touch would be welcomed; they got on well, but Natasha was not sure they could be classed as 'friends' just yet.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," she said quietly. "Um, fell into the bottle?"

Clint looked up at her with confusion, before realisation dawned on his face and he blushed.

"Sorry, your English is so good I sometimes forget you're not a native speaker," he said. "Um, 'fell into the bottle' is a phrase. It means that he became an alcoholic."

Ah. Now Natasha understood. She stored the phrase away in her memory. There were very few English words and phrases that she did not know, but she came across them occasionally. It was somewhat refreshing to know that she was still learning. It meant that she still had the potential to grow and develop.

"Was he neglectful when he was drunk?" she asked.

Clint laughed bitterly, a pained look flashing across his features for a moment. It sent a pang of sadness through Natasha to see it.

"Sometimes neglectful, sometimes violent," Clint replied. "Let's just say, when my mom took off, I effectively lost both my parents that day. I never saw my mom again and my dad was never the same after that."

"I'm sorry," said Natasha, and this time she did give Clint's back a gentle pat.

She understood what it was like to have your childhood ripped away from you, to have to grow up too fast, too young. It saddened her to know that Clint had had to learn how to be an adult when he was just seven years old. It was not right. Parents should not treat their children like that.

"Thanks," said Clint, shooting her a grateful smile. "But every cloud has a silver lining and all that. It meant I learnt how to cook some awesome meals. I probably ate better than a lot of kids my age whose parents were too tired after work to cook them anything amazing."

Natasha smiled. Clint's positive nature was another thing she was not used to. She was used to seeing things from a purely functional perspective. If there was a problem, you fixed it. If something worked well, you refined it. Emotions were irrelevant. To accept something as bad and yet take something positive from it anyway was a very alien, very different way of thinking. She found it intriguing and fascinating.

The sad look disappeared from Clint's face as he dipped a finger into the bowl of cookie dough, before sticking it into his mouth and sucking on it, moaning obscenely.

"Mmm, delicious," he said, smacking his lips. "Try it."

Smiling, Natasha stuck a finger into the mixture and brought it up to her lips. She sniffed at it for a moment before sticking it into her mouth and sucking it off her finger. She hummed with pleasure as the sweet flavour exploded on her tongue. It was divine. The sweetness of the dough and its squishy texture sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. Clint grinned at her reaction, picking up the wooden spoon and handing it to her.

Natasha took it from him and carefully licked some of the dough off the spoon, giggling as she passed it back to Clint so that he could do the same. It felt delightfully naughty and innocent at the same time.

Sighing happily, Clint started transferring the mixture from the bowl onto a baking tray, before carrying the tray over to the oven and sticking it in.

"They take around 10 minutes to cook," he said, setting a little timer and walking back to her side. "Do you want to try making the next batch?"

"Sure," said Natasha, nodding.

Clint smiled and put a piece of paper in front of her that listed all the measurements.

Natasha was quiet as she whipped up the next batch of cookies. She was concentrating on doing everything right, wanting to make something for Laura that was as delicious as what Clint had made. Laura had been incredibly kind to her from the moment she had arrived, and Natasha wanted to show her how grateful she was.

When her own batch went into the oven, she was a little dusty with flour, but she was pleased. She and Clint had sampled some of the cookie dough (Clint insisted that it was a mandatory part of the cookie-making process) and it had been wonderfully tasty.

"Do you see your father at all these days?" she asked, after Clint had re-set the timer for 10 minutes.

Clint sighed as he shook his head.

"I haven't seen him for almost 20 years," he said, staring down at the table with a glum look on his face. "I left home as soon as I could, on my 18th birthday, and we haven't tried to reconnect since. He could be dead for all I know."

Natasha watched him carefully. She had so many questions, but she was not sure if it was her place to ask any of them. She did not want to pry or make him feel uncomfortable.

"Do you want to see him again?" she asked eventually.

Clint looked up from the table as he smiled and shook his head.

"No," he said, his blue eyes clear and honest. "He got pretty violent towards the end. He beat me up practically daily. He made it clear that he had only ever loved my mom, not me. He hadn't even wanted to have children. He was so far from the father I remember before the age of seven that losing touch with him really is no loss. Besides, I have my own family now – Laura and Cooper. I love them to pieces. They're all the family I need."

Natasha smiled, staring off out of the window. She wondered what it must be like to have a family. She supposed that Elena and James had been her family. They were her sister and father – perhaps not in genetics, but in all the ways that mattered. She remembered the bond she had had with them. It had been strong, beautiful, pure. It had been love. That was what family was, she realised: love. Love that endured across distance and time, even when the other person passed on from the land of the living. Family was all about love.

The timer went off, ripping her from her thoughts.

"Let's get these beauties on the cooling rack," said Clint, bounding over to the oven to take out Natasha's batch.

Natasha watched as Clint expertly moved the cookies from the baking tray onto the rack. Wordlessly, she crossed over to the sink to start on the washing up.

A light, unexpected touch to her shoulder a few minutes later made her whip around, her hands out and about to seize Clint by the throat before she realised what she was doing and froze, horror and panic bubbling up in her throat. She jerked her hands away from Clint as if they had been burned, a deep blush of shame rising up her neck.

"I'm so sorry," she stammered. "I... You just surprised me. I didn't mean to-"

Clint stopped her rambling with a simple raised hand, a gentle smile on his face, letting her know that it was OK, that she did not need to explain.

"I'm sorry for startling you," he said, pressing on before Natasha could say anything. "I just wanted to say thanks for helping me bake these for Laura. You did an awesome job for your first time. She's going to love them."

Giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, he plucked the sponge from her hand and took over the washing up, nudging a towel in her direction, indicating that she was in charge of drying.

Natasha was quiet as they went about the washing and drying. The shock of almost accidentally attacking Clint was wearing off, leaving in its place a deep sense of shame, embarrassment and regret.

"Are you OK?" she asked quietly, when they had finally finished all the washing up.

Clint looked surprised at her question, as if he had forgotten what had happened already.

"Of course," he said. "You didn't even touch me."

Natasha bit down on her lip as she looked down at the floor in shame.

It was true; she had not touched him. But she had been about to. She had almost throttled him, out of pure reflexive instinct.

"Hey, come here," Clint said softly, wiping away a stray tear from her cheek before pulling her in for a hug. "I'm OK. It's OK."

They held one another gently for a long while, until finally Natasha's heart rate went back to normal, and the feeling of horror and disgust bubbling in her gut began to fade. Clint held her protectively, talking soft and low, reminding her that she had not hurt him, that he was OK, that everyone and everything was absolutely fine.

It took a long time, but finally Natasha started to believe him and her tremors stopped.

By the time Laura returned, exclaiming that these were the best-looking cookies she had ever seen, Natasha had relaxed sufficiently that the smile on her face was genuine.

Between herself, Clint and Laura, they demolished the whole lot.

They all laughed as Cooper sucked on a cookie, making happy slurping noises that Laura joked reminded her of Clint eating.

Natasha found herself laughing uproariously as the couple began bickering about who made the most disgusting noises. In the end, Cooper won, by simultaneously farting and burping so loudly that the entire kitchen was stunned into momentary silence.

It did not even register that it was the first time she had genuinely laughed for a prolonged period of time for over 5 years.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Clint went away on an urgent mission.

It was strange, not to have Clint around. He had been there the entire time since Natasha had first arrived, as Director Fury had told him that his top priority was to help Natasha adjust to free life. It seemed, though, that something had cropped up that required Clint's skills, and so Natasha was left alone with Laura and Cooper.

It made her a little nervous. She got on very well with Laura, but she had not really spent any time alone with the woman before. They had always hung out whilst Clint was also there, and Natasha found herself a little anxious despite the fact that she knew, objectively, that there was nothing to worry about.

Laura seemed to have no such worries.

She was buzzing with excited energy, cranking up the music as she flitted around the kitchen, preparing dinner. Natasha briefly wandered in to ask if she needed any help, but Laura told her to go and relax in the living room, saying she would come and fetch her when it was time.

Natasha wondered what exactly Laura had planned, but then promptly forgot about her musings as she curled up on a beanbag in the living room and became absorbed in a book of English poetry.

She was getting lost in a particularly long piece by William Shakespeare – Venus and Adonis – when Laura stuck her head into the living room, plucking her from her thoughts.

"I've just put Cooper to bed. Do you want to go outside to eat?" she said.

Natasha folded down the corner of the page she was on to mark her place and got to her feet, giving Laura a smile and a nod. Laura's face broke out into a broad grin and she stepped fully into the living room to reveal that she already had a basket full of food and a pile of blankets in her arms.

"There's a spot at the top of the meadow where you can see for miles," said Laura. "Let's go there."

Natasha nodded again, wordlessly taking the basket from her hands, leaving Laura with just the blankets, sharing the load between them.

"Sounds good," said Natasha, blushing when she saw Laura smile brightly for taking the heavy basket off her. "I like sitting out in the meadow."

She toed on her shoes and waited patiently for Laura to put on her own and pick up the baby monitor, so that she would still be able to listen to Cooper in case he needed her while they were in the meadow, out of earshot from the house.

"It's gorgeous, isn't it?" said Laura, holding the front door open for Natasha as they spilled out onto the porchway. "When we first built the house, it was just a boring old field. Clint selected and sowed all the seeds himself."

Natasha let out a long, low whistle as they slowly started making their way through the flowers towards the top of the meadow.

"That's impressive," she said. "Wait, hang on, you guys built your own house?"

Laura let out a little laugh as she nodded, her long brown hair swinging gently. Natasha stared at it for a moment, thinking it reminded her of Elena, before tearing her eyes away to take in the beauty of the meadow.

The flowers were swaying gently in the breeze, rusting amongst the long grass and giving off their sweet scent. It was like natural perfume, light and fresh.

The sun was setting, basking them in a beautiful orange glow. It reminded Natasha of when she had first arrived, six weeks previously. There had been a glorious sunset then, too.

"I've got to say, I'm excited that we get to enjoy some girl time," said Laura, giving Natasha a soft smile. "Normally, I'm just surrounded by the boys. It's nice to have another woman around the place."

Natasha thought about the Red Room Academy. There, she had been surrounded by females. It was probably not what Laura had in mind for quality 'girl time' though. She caught sight of a bunch of buttercups. She remembered how she had picked buttercups to give to Elena. A small smile tugged at her lips. She remembered the two weeks that they had had off, when Madame B had been ill. She had enjoyed those two weeks of wonderful, lazy summer days with Elena so much. Perhaps that was more like what Laura was thinking about when she spoke about 'girl time'.

"You're not much of a talker, are you?" said Laura.

Natasha blushed, realising that she had been largely silent for most of the duration of their walk through the meadow.

"I'm sorry," she said, kicking herself for being so rude. "I'm not really used to socialising. I've not had many friends."

Laura smiled as she held up a hand, bringing them to a stop, and spread one of the blankets onto the ground.

"Don't apologise," said Laura. "There's nothing wrong with being quiet."

With that, she kicked off her shoes and plopped herself down on the blanket, indicating for Natasha to do the same. Natasha mirrored her movements, slipping off her shoes and sitting down next to Laura, placing the picnic basket in front of them.

Laura reached forward and opened the hamper, bringing out some homemade quiches, fresh vegetables and a bottle of wine. Leaning forwards, she then reached deeper into the hamper and pulled out two mugs, pouring a generous helping of wine into each one.

"Cheers," she said, passing one of the mugs to Natasha and holding the other one in the air.

"Cheers," echoed Natasha, tapping her mug against Laura's with an impish smile.

She took a deep drink of the red wine, savouring the sweet, fruity taste on her tongue. She hummed with appreciation before reaching out and taking a piece of quiche, biting into it as she gazed out at the sun setting over the hills.

The sky was a deep navy blue, laced with wisps of orange, pink and gold as the sun illuminated the little clouds.

She found herself smiling. This was freedom: sitting on a hilltop watching the sunset, eating quiche and drinking wine. It was made all the more wonderful by the fact that she was living with Clint and Laura; two sweet, lovely people who had treated her with kindness and humanity from the moment she had arrived.

They ate their dinner lazily, making occasional small talk and cracking jokes as they enjoyed their food and drink.

Once the food had been eaten, Laura topped up their mugs with more wine and turned to face Natasha, her hand trailing in the grass as she absentmindedly picked at the green blades.

"We should get to know one another more," said Laura, picking a daisy and flicking it at Natasha. "Let's play the question game."

Natasha's brow scrunched up in confusion as she cocked her head to the side.

"What's the question game?" she asked.

Laura giggled as she stretched out on the blanket so that she was lying on her back, looking up at the sky.

After a moment, Natasha placed her mug of wine on the grass and lay down next to her. It was oddly comforting to feel the other woman's presence next to her, brushing against her arm.

"It's a game where we ask one another questions. We both have to answer and we have to tell the truth. It's good for learning more about another person," Laura explained.

Natasha squirmed uncomfortably. She was not entirely happy to talk about herself; there were so many things about herself that she did not like and that she was ashamed of. She did not want to peel back her facade and reveal too much of herself. What if Laura did not like what she saw?

She realised though, with a spike of trepidation, that she owed Laura this, at least. Laura had given her so much – a place to live, a warm welcome, total acceptance of her past – it would be selfish of her not to play Laura's game.

Against her better judgement, she nodded.

"OK," she said, hoping that Laura would not ask anything that could potentially lead to any dark or shocking answers. She doubted Laura would do so on purpose, but so much of Natasha's life was intertwined with the evils of the Red Room Academy and the KGB that she could not help but think that it was almost an inevitability.

"Cool," said Laura brightly, apparently not picking up on Natasha's trepidation. "Let's start with a simple question, just to demonstrate how the game works. What's your name? My name is Laura."

Natasha turned her head to the side to look at Laura. The sun had set now, so she could only really make out Laura's profile, backlit against the rapidly darkening sky. After a few seconds of silence, Laura looked back at her in the darkness. Natasha blinked.

"You know my name," she said, mystified.

Laura laughed gently.

"I know, silly," she said softly. "I'm just showing you how the game works. Just answer. It'll get more fun when we do better questions."

Feeling a little foolish, Natasha forced out a reply.

"My name is Natalia, but since the age of three I've gone by the informal version, which is Natasha," she said, blushing a little.

Her answer felt clunky and awkward to her ears, but Laura did not seem to think so, if her hum of interest was anything to go by.

"That's cool!" she said. "I didn't realise Natasha was a variation of Natalia. See, we're learning more about one another already."

Natasha smiled at Laura's enthusiasm, even though she still privately thought that her answer had been far from interesting.

"OK, I have a question," said Natasha, deciding to take the lead so that Laura would not always be the one thinking up questions. "What's your favourite food?"

Laura hummed again, this time sounding deep in thought as she considered her answer. Natasha waited patiently for her to speak, looking up at the sky where the stars were becoming visible as the navy blue sky gradually turned to black. Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the dark, she could see the majestic arm of the Milky Way, a breath-taking sweep of stars across the sky. She got so lost watching the beautiful points of light that she almost missed Laura's answer.

"Clint makes an amazing chicken madras curry," she said. "I'll ask him if he can make it when he comes back from his mission. It's rich and spicy and just amazing. He makes his own naan bread too. To be honest, everything Clint makes could be classed as amazing. He's a very talented cook."

Natasha could hear the smile in Laura's voice and found herself smiling back in the darkness.

"He is," Natasha agreed. "He told me he's been cooking since he was seven, and you can tell."

Laura was silent for a beat before speaking cautiously.

"Did he tell you why he started to cook so young?" she asked.

Natasha looked over at Laura, seeing her lying still next to her. She suddenly felt uncomfortable, afraid that she had accidentally strayed into a topic of conversation that was not meant to be spoken about.

"He told me that his mom left and his dad became abusive," Natasha said nervously. "He didn't give details."

To her surprise, she felt Laura reach down and squeeze her hand.

"That's good that he told you," said Laura gently. "It's a very personal topic for him, so he must trust you if he told you about it."

Natasha blushed, thankful for the darkness. Laura and Clint did this sometimes; told her that she was kind, or funny, or trustworthy. Natasha still felt a little uncomfortable at receiving these compliments, although she was getting better at it. She was simply not used to thinking of herself in such terms. Before, she had been described as efficient, ruthless and cold – those were the compliments that had been sent her way. To be called nice, or kind, or trustworthy was a completely new experience; it took some getting used to.

Laura seemed to sense she was uncomfortable, because she swiftly changed the subject, turning Natasha's question back on her.

"So, what's  _your_ favourite food?"

Natasha barely had to think about it.

"Your homemade vegetable pie," she replied, smiling. "You made it the day I first arrived. I... I think it was the best meal I've ever had in my life."

She wondered, as soon as the words left her mouth, if perhaps the reason it stood out in her mind as being so delicious was because it had been her first meal as a free woman. It had literally been her first taste of freedom, her first taste of anything resembling home.

She wondered if vegetable pie would forever be tied together with her first memories of liberty, and found that she did not mind at all if that was the case. It was a wonderful memory to have associated with anything. It was a privilege for the pie, which was not a sentence she thought she would be thinking when she had got up that morning.

"That's very sweet of you, Natasha," said Laura, sounding touched that Natasha had chosen one of her meals as her favourite, out of 23 whole years of living and eating. She snuggled closer to Natasha. Natasha closed her eyes and leaned against Laura's warmth, feeling cared for and safe.

"What's your favourite memory?" asked Laura, after a short pause.

The sweet aroma of the wildflowers washed over Natasha, reminding her of a whole different meadow; the ones on the hills surrounding the Red Room Academy.

She smiled as her eyes slipped closed and she allowed herself to be transported into the past. She could almost feel the heat of those summer days, could almost see Elena walking ahead of her in the meadow as they made their way up the big, big hill with the beech tree at the top.

"When I was 10 years old, Madame B – that was my teacher – fell ill," she said, a little dreamily. "She was taken to hospital for two weeks, and for all that time, my class were given time off. It was the first time I'd ever had any time off, so it was very exciting. One day, my friend Elena and I decided to go for a walk in the countryside near the school."

She paused. In her mind's eye, Elena was suddenly stood in front of her, her little fist clutching a handful of poppies, her brown eyes bright with excitement as she presented them to Natasha. Natasha reached out, trying to touch her friend, but her hand, of course, simply met cool empty space. She allowed her hand to drop back down to her side, disappointed.

"We stole some strawberries and sandwiches and decided to climb the tallest hill. Its slopes were covered in wildflowers. I suppose it was quite like the meadow here, and on the way up, we just chatted. We talked about anything and everything. We picked flowers for one another – poppies for me to match my hair, and buttercups for Elena because yellow was her favourite colour – and when we got to the top of the hill, we climbed up a beech tree and had our lunch. We snuggled in that tree for hours, just eating strawberries and cuddling one another and talking. She told me that she loved me, and I told her that we'd be best friends forever."

She clenched her hands as the memory washed over her powerfully, fully immersing her in everything that had happened that day. She could feel the sticky warmth of the summer sun beating down on them. She could feel the soft warmness of Elena's body pressed against hers as they flopped together up the tree. She could see the vibrancy of the colours, from the wildflowers to the cloudless sky.

"A few days later, I went to see James. He was a farmer. I had strawberries with me then, as well, and we lay together in his field, just eating and talking. He told me about his best friend Alexei and how he'd died in a Nazi concentration camp when he was just a little boy. He told me how important freedom was. He said that a life without freedom was not a life at all. I didn't really understand what he meant... Until now."

She lapsed into silence. It was strange, how Natasha should only now gain insight into something that James had said thirteen years ago, now that she was free. It felt as though her and James' conversation was ongoing. It made Natasha feel a deep pang of longing for James. Even now, five years since his death, he was still impacting Natasha's life in a positive way. He was still teaching her about the world. Natasha longed for him to come back, but she knew it was impossible. She had killed him. She bowed her head, ashamed, not speaking or moving until Laura began to speak next to her.

"My favourite memory is the day I met Clint," she said, and Natasha listened intently, wanting to put an end to her own negative thoughts and learn some more about Laura. "I was 16 years old and had just moved to a new town. I had to do the whole awkward introducing myself to the class routine. I said my name was Laura and my favourite fruit was blueberries. Clint was in my class and he spent the whole first day too shy to talk to me. The next day though, when I walked into class, he got up and gave me a blueberry pie that he'd made himself. Everyone teased him, but I loved it. I was so touched. I could see how much effort he'd put into it and we started talking. I realised he was smart, and sweet, and kind. I thought he was the most interesting person I'd ever met. I still do."

Natasha smiled as Laura finished her story. She could imagine Clint as an awkward teenager, too shy to talk but mad enough to bake his crush a blueberry pie within 24 hours of meeting her. It was very sweet, like the way he had baked her chocolate chip cookies on a whim, simply because he thought his wife was 'awesome'.

She also remembered how she and Clint had met, at Ernesto Silva's compound; remembered the instinctive way, impulsive way he had acted then too. She wondered if Clint had always had that seemingly innate talent to judge the value of a person within such a short amount of time.

"That sounds just like something Clint would do," said Natasha, smiling up at the starry sky. "He adores you, you know. I can see it in the way he looks at you; it's just... so loving. It's wonderful."

She heard Laura giggle softly beside her and felt a rush of happiness that she had been the cause of it. She wanted to make Laura – and Clint – laugh and smile as much as possible, she decided. The more time she spent with them, the more she realised that she liked them both very, very much.

"What's your favourite way to relax?" asked Natasha, keen to learn more about the woman who had welcomed her so warmly into her home.

Laura stretched out beside her, yawning lazily, before snuggling back up to Natasha. Natasha felt a warm fuzziness envelop her at the contact. She had forgotten how nice it was just to lovingly, chastely touch another human being. She had loved cuddles with Elena and James, and she realised now just how much she missed the visceral, physical contact they had provided.

"Oh, I'm a walking stereotype when it comes to relaxing," said Laura. "I love listening to the radio and dancing. Country music is my favourite. I love hiking and exploring the wilderness too. Clint and I try to go on a camping vacation every year, if we can; a different place each year. We'll bring you with us, next time we go, if you like the sound of that?"

Natasha felt herself choke up a little. No one had ever asked her to go on holiday with them before, apart from Elena when they had made their vague plans to go to the seaside when they grew up. She felt touched that Laura considered her worthy of going on holiday with them. It made her feel as though she mattered. It made her feel as though she belonged.

"It'd be an honour," she said, hoping that Laura would not notice the slight waver in her voice. When Laura did not comment on it, she ploughed on, supposing it was only fair that she answered the question too, as was dictated by the rules of the game. "I like to relax by reading, or just being outside and enjoying being under the big blue sky. My friend James always used to say that he thought that freedom looked like a big blue sky. I didn't understand what he meant then, but I think I do now."

Laura's voice, when it came, was surprisingly close. Natasha startled a little, having not realised that Laura had snuggled closer when Natasha had been busy speaking.

"Are you enjoying freedom, Natasha?" she asked, her voice quiet, gentle and completely non-judgmental.

Natasha did not even need to consider it before giving her answer.

"Yes," she said. "God, yes. It's better than I could have ever imagined. It still feels a bit weird and overwhelming sometimes, but I think that's just me getting used to the change."

Laura hummed thoughtfully, obviously paying full attention to Natasha's answer and thinking over what she had said. This was another thing that Natasha was still not entirely used to; people treating her as if her thoughts and opinions mattered. The KGB had cared about her tactical mind only. Her inner self, her thoughts, her feelings, had been of no interest to them.

"Next question. When was your first kiss?" asked Laura, sounding a little giggly.

_Strong metal fingers._

_Blank blue eyes._

_"Strip. Then get on the bed."_

Natasha froze, her breath seeming to get caught in her lungs, making her feel as though she was choking, drowning.

She pressed her hands down hard, mashing her fingertips against the softness of the picnic blanket underneath her in an attempt to ground herself in the present, but it did not work.

She could feel her grasp on reality slipping away, could feel Madame B's bedroom solidify around her as the quiet, peaceful meadow faded away.

_The room was silent, apart from her rapidly pounding heart._

_The Winter Soldier was naked, his perfectly sculpted body pressed up against hers. His penis was erect between his legs as he kissed her._

_"Open your legs."_

_No no no._

"Natasha? Natasha!"

Natasha came back to reality with a jerk as Laura slapped her face. Natasha gasped, her lungs seemingly starved of air, as the last of the flashback faded away and the panic slowly began to subside. She was shaking hard, she realised. She focused on her breathing, the fear slipping away faster when Laura wrapped a spare blanket around both of them, cocooning them together and making her feel as safe and wrapped up as when Laura had tucked her into bed on her first night here at the farmhouse.

"Madame B forced all the girls to have sex," she said stiffly. "I... I was lucky. For some reason, he stopped before he raped me, but-"

Laura cut her off, wrapping her arms around her and hushing her gently as she stroked Natasha's hair slowly and carefully.

"You don't have to explain," said Laura. "You can, if you think it'll help, but please don't feel like you have to tell me what happened, if you don't want to."

Natasha nodded tightly, burying her face into Laura's neck, feeling her tears trickle down her cheeks and into Laura's thick brown hair. She was immensely grateful that Laura was not forcing her to explain. Her almost-rape at the hands of the Winter Soldier was not something that she was anywhere near ready to talk about.

"Tell me about Elena and James," whispered Laura, one arm stroking Natasha's hair, the other holding her tight, like a mother cradling a child.

Natasha breathed out a sigh of relief. Images of Elena and James slowly began to form and solidify in her mind, replacing her nightmare imaginings of Madame B's bedroom.

"Elena looked a little bit like you," said Natasha, softly. "She had brown eyes and dark brown hair, but her hair was straight, not wavy like yours. We became friends the day we met. When I first arrived at the Red Room Academy, she was the only person who acted friendly towards me. She took me to a cupboard. She told me the cupboard was special, that it was a secret room with magical properties. She always had such a vivid imagination. She told me that she wanted to be a writer when she grew up."

Natasha sighed, snuggling closer to Laura as she relaxed, Laura's fingers carding though her hair and memories of Elena slowly calming her down.

"Elena was friendly and loving and kind. She was creative and smart. She was too much of a good person to have survived the Red Room Academy. She refused to end our friendship when Madame B told us that friendship was forbidden. I think she would have enjoyed freedom; she told me once that she wanted to go the seaside, but in the end she never got the chance."

"She sounds lovely," said Laura.

"She was," said Natasha, taking a moment to compose herself as her throat swelled shut, constricted by emotion. "James was a sweet old man. He was a pig farmer who lived next to the Red Room Academy. He had brown eyes and curly white hair; I think it was blonde when he was younger. His father was Russian but his mother was English, so sometimes we would speak English together if I wanted to practice. He was kind and honest. Elena could be fiery but James was calmer. He taught me a lot of things, told me stories about his life and the world. He was like a father to me. He was more of a parent figure than any of the teachers at the Red Room Academy. We'd spend hours just talking in his living room in front of the fire, or playing with one of the baby pigs, or reading English story books. He... he was so brave. When the end came, he faced it without fear."

Laura did not ask her to clarify what she meant when Natasha fell silent, clearing sensing that it was something that Natasha was not yet ready to discuss. Natasha was thankful, closing her eyes as she slipped her hand into Laura's, feeling grounded and comforted by the touch. Laura squeezed her hand back, intertwining their fingers.

"They both sound amazing," she said softly, after a while. "I wish I could have met them."

Natasha felt a tear slip down her cheek, but it was a happy tear, rather than one of grief. It was as if the love she held for Elena and James was just too much to be kept inside her body, and the escaping tears were like the overflow on a dam, leaking out that sweet, powerful love.

"They were the best," she whispered, holding Laura's hand tightly.

Wordlessly, Laura sat up, reaching out to grab her mug of wine and nodding her head at Natasha's mug, indicating that she should do the same. Natasha picked up her mug, her fingers a little numb from the cool night air.

"To Elena and James," said Laura, holding her mug up to shoulder height.

Natasha instantly mirrored her movements, holding her mug high and tapping it gently against Laura's.

"To Elena and James," she said, her heart beating fiercely with pride that her friends were being remembered and toasted. They deserved it and more.

They sipped their wine in silence.

Natasha gazed up at the wide open sky, watching the stars.

 

* * *

 

It was many months later, on an unseasonably warm autumn's day, that Natasha was put on babysitting duty.

After much talking and negotiation with Director Fury, he had reluctantly agreed to allow Natasha out of the Bartons' supervision for one night. It was Clint and Laura's anniversary, and they were going out for a swanky meal in a nearest city and spending the night there. They had gone through all of Cooper's needs with Natasha before they had left, and told her not to hesitate in calling them if she had any other questions.

Natasha had been surprised and honoured when they had asked if she would babysit for them. She had assumed that they would be uncomfortable leaving their son with her. They had allayed her concerns immediately, telling her that she had come along leaps and bounds in terms of her mental health since she had arrived, and that she had certainly not displayed any concerning or unusual behaviour towards Cooper.

And so Natasha was left to look after Cooper overnight. The little boy had been excited at the prospect of being looked after by 'Auntie Nat' and Natasha had found herself looking forward to it too.

She adored the little boy. He was a sweet, bright and inquisitive toddler. He had not batted an eye when she had randomly appeared out of the blue six months before and had quickly decided that they were best friends.

Earlier in the evening, Natasha had fed him and, as it was such a warm evening, the two of them were sitting out in the meadow before bedtime.

Natasha was sat amongst the grass and the dying flowers, watching Cooper as he toddled away and returned each time, clutching handfuls of grass and flowers.

"Wa-wa," he said, dropping a pile of grass in Natasha's lap.

Natasha smiled at his pronunciation of the word 'flower' and picked up the grass to admire it.

"Thanks, Cooper!" she exclaimed, giving him a big smile.

Cooper giggled as he planted a kiss on her cheek and then he toddled off again into the long grass, to find some other nice bit of grass or 'wa-wa' to bring back to Natasha. They had been playing this game for the last half an hour. Cooper would run off and return a short while later, clutching whatever botanical specimen he had picked.

After a couple of minutes, Cooper had still not returned, and Natasha found herself feeling a little uneasy at the toddler's absence. Her fear grew when she called out his name, only to hear no response.

Natasha shot to her feet, panic suddenly blooming in her chest that some harm may have come to the little boy. She berated herself angrily, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid for being lulled into a false sense of security and letting him wander off for even the shortest amount of time. He was only 18 months old; what had she been  _thinking_?

She crashed through the long grass, keeping a sharp eye out for Cooper's light brown hair or his pale blue clothing. The sun was setting, meaning that every movement of the swaying grass was amplified and exaggerated by the long shadows, making it difficult for Natasha to differentiate the irrelevant movement of the grass from anything that could give her any clue of Cooper’s whereabouts.

Suddenly, she spotted a flash of pale blue to her right, seemingly slumped down on the meadow floor, not moving.

Natasha's heart leapt to her mouth as she sprinted over to the little boy, who she could see, now, was lying on his front. As he heard her approach, he looked up, pressing a finger to his lips as he pointed to a rabbit that was sitting in front of him, little more than a metre away.

"Are you OK?" demanded Natasha, dropping to her knees next to Cooper and pulling him upright so that she could examine him.

With a wave of relief so strong that she felt she would have fallen to her knees had she not already been kneeling down, she noted that he did not seem to be injured.

"Auntie Nat," he whined, pouting. "Rabbit gone."

Natasha wrapped her arms around him tightly, pulling him into a hug and rocking him gently as she buried her face against his soft brown hair. She was shaking slightly, still coming down from the terror that had been triggered when she had realised Cooper was missing. If anything had happened to him,  _God_ , she would never have been able to forgive her self.

"Auntie Nat," giggled Cooper, wriggling in her arms.

"Sorry, baby, was I hugging you too tight?" she said, pulling back and relaxing her grip a little.

"No," said Cooper, snuggling back into her arms and kissing her wet cheeks as his eyes slipped closed. "Bedtime now."

Natasha smiled, picking him up carefully and carrying him back to the house. She walked slowly, her legs a little shaky now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off. She clutched him protectively to her chest, feeling strangely maternal towards him. She pushed away the thoughts that she would never have a child of her own, not yet ready to face those particular demons.

They arrived back at the house and Natasha locked the front door behind her, despite the fact that there was literally no one for miles around. She was determined not do anything else that could potentially compromise Cooper's safety. His safety was her responsibility. He was a toddler; innocent and helpless.

She carried him upstairs and clumsily stripped him of his clothes, dressing him in his train-patterned pyjamas instead. Cooper was drifting in and out of sleep, occasionally clinging to her hands as she tried to wrestle him into his night clothes. When he was finally dressed in his pyjamas, Natasha placed a cuddly toy in his clutching hands instead, smiling as he finally settled and lay peacefully in his bed.

Natasha stayed for another 10 minutes or so, just watching him sleep. A feeling of contentment stirred in her chest as she watched the little boy, his long dark eyelashes fanning across his cheeks as he breathed slowly and evenly.

Eventually, Natasha crept out of his bedroom, heading towards her own room at the other end of the landing. She kept his bedroom door open, so that she would be able to hear him if Cooper called out for her.

Changing into her own pyjamas, she checked on Cooper once again, before heading downstairs. There, she arranged some of the flowers that Cooper had picked in a vase, placing it in the middle of the kitchen table, and went about doing the washing up and generally tidying the house.

She wanted to feel useful. She felt a little as though she was taking advantage of Clint and Laura's hospitality, even though she knew that she was here to adjust to freedom and overcome the traumas she had suffered. Before, she had always had missions, always had a purpose. It made her a little uneasy to simply relax and have this down time; it felt unproductive.

"Auntie Nat!"

Cooper's plaintive cry jerked Natasha out of her thoughts immediately. She hurried up the stairs, heading straight for Cooper's bedroom.

He was sitting up in his bed, his face wet with tears as his bottom lip trembled. Natasha rushed to him immediately, picking him up and cradling him to her chest.

"Did you have a bad dream?" she asked, stroking his hair gently and soothing him as he clung to her.

Cooper nodded, letting out a whimper as he buried his face into her neck.

"Don't be scared, little one," she soothed. "It was just a dream. It's OK. It can't hurt you now."

Cooper shook his head as he wrapped his arms and legs tightly around her.

"Don't leave me," he begged. "Scared."

Natasha placed a gentle kiss on the top of his head as she swayed with him in her arms. She looked doubtfully at Cooper's cot-sized bed and then started walking towards her own bedroom.

"I won't leave you," she promised, which made Cooper quieten considerably, to her relief. "We're going to have an adventure sleeping in my room, does that sound good?"

Cooper nodded, his tears finally stopping when Natasha carefully laid him down in her bed and then clambered in next to him. It was a tight squeeze, but it was doable, even if it meant Natasha would not be able to roll over.

"Night night," said Cooper, yawning as he snuggled closer to Natasha. "I love you, Auntie Nat."

Natasha lay very still as Cooper drifted off to sleep next to her, feeling his soft puffs of breath against her neck.

Her heart was beating fast. A strange, hot, protective feeling spread through her body as she listened to the sound of the little boy's breathing.

It dawned on her that she loved him too, that she loved Clint and Laura and Cooper Barton, that she would do anything to protect them, to keep them safe, to make them happy.

Her heart soared as Cooper's little hand curled around her arm.

She was becoming part of the family.

 

* * *

 

It was around a month after she babysat for Cooper when Clint brought up Budapest.

They were out in the woods around the back of the house, practicing their shooting in a makeshift range, as had become routine for Clint and Natasha.

They were both shooting perfect bullseyes, Clint with his bow and arrows, and Natasha with a paintball gun that had been modified for accuracy. Director Fury had not yet given permission for Natasha to be given live ammunition.

Natasha loved spending time in the shooting range. When she was shooting, she would relax completely. Her mind would go blissfully blank and she would be filled with a calm sereneness.

On this particular day, she was so absorbed in the task of shooting that she did not hear Clint the first time he spoke.

"Hey! Nat!" repeated Clint, waving his hand in her peripheral vision as he grinned at her.

Natasha startled slightly as she lowered her paintball gun, turning towards Clint.

"Sorry," she said. "Did you say something?"

Clint propped his bow and arrows against a tree as he sat down on a tree stump, gesturing for Natasha to do that same. She did so, kicking out her feet and stretching her legs.

"Yeah," grinned Clint. "I said, how are you finding the free world?"

Natasha was silent for a moment as she considered her answer. She had been released from the KGB seven months previously and during that time Clint and Laura had been the perfect hosts and mentors, helping her adjust to free life, providing her with shoulders to cry on and giving her space when they sensed she needed time alone to work through her thoughts.

She had progressed well over the last seven months, gradually becoming more confident and comfortable with making decisions for herself and in talking about and working through many of the traumas she had experienced.

She enjoyed spending time with the Barton family. She was comfortable to think of them as her friends now, perhaps even as her family. She loved them dearly. She loved the fact that when she opened her eyes in the morning, she could look out of the window and see the meadow, the hills, the big blue sky.

"I'm enjoying freedom," she said eventually. "I love it. It still feels alien sometimes, but I'm getting used to it."

She hesitated, looking up to glance up at Clint a little guiltily. Clint caught the look and nodded for her to continue.

"But?" he prompted.

Natasha took a deep breath, wondering how to say what she wanted to say next without sounding ungrateful or as if she was disregarding the warm welcome that she had received from them.

"But I feel like a spare part," she said, lowering her gaze. "I feel like I don't belong here."

Autumn leaves crunched underfoot as Clint crossed over to sit next to her on the wide tree stump. There was just enough room for both of them if they squeezed together.

"You do belong here," he said.

Natasha could hear the frown in his voice.

"But you don't need me," she tried to explain.

Her whole life, she had been told that her value was in her usefulness – her ability to spy, to kill, to steal. It was difficult to shake that way of thinking; it had been drilled into her since she was 3 years old.

"No, we don't  _need_ you. But we  _want_ you," said Clint, earnestly.

Natasha sat in silence for a while, trying to absorb the concept of being wanted.

"What for?" she asked, after a long pause.

She heard Clint sigh next to her, and looked up to meet his gaze. Her heart clenched when she saw how sad he looked.

"We just want you for you," said Clint. "We like you. There are no hidden agendas here."

Natasha shifted uncomfortably. She knew that this was true, that the Bartons simply wanted her to get better, to heal from everything the KGB and the Red Room Academy had put her through. It was just difficult to wrap her head around. Seven months did not immediately undo twenty years of damage.

"If you're feeling restless, though, I can ask Director Fury if we can go on a trial mission," continued Clint. "He called me this morning actually. A mission's just come up in Budapest. It's not time critical, but he says it's something we should nip in the bud before it becomes anything bigger."

Natasha sat up straighter, immediately taking interest.

"I can speak Hungarian," she said.

"That could be useful," Clint said thoughtfully. "I'll have to put you through some physical tests and training first, although by the looks of things, you don't really need it."

He nodded towards the perfect bullseyes that Natasha had been shooting earlier, causing her to blush.

"How does that sound?" he asked. "Do you want to get out into the field again? Do a mission?"

Natasha barely had to think about it before the reply rolled off her tongue, natural and liquid-like.

"Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE BARTON HOUSE: For those of you who have not seen Avengers: Age of Ultron, or if you just really want to see Clint's house, [ here it is](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/157688932816/clint-and-laura-bartons-farmhouse-3)!
> 
> TEASER: So, Avengers fans, have you ever wondered exactly what happened in Budapest? The next chapter will be (imaginatively) titled "Budapest" and will explain all!
> 
> THANK YOU: Oh my goodness, thank you for all the lovely comments you guys left on the last chapter. Reading your feedback and your general squeals of excitement gives me so much happiness and motivation, so thank you! You guys are the sweetest! <3


	20. Budapest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Chapter art.](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/157983125191/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter-20)

2007 – Aged 23

 

* * *

 

Their mission was a simple one.

They were to follow an arms dealer, Dominik Nagy, and take photographs of him selling weapons to a criminal gang. The police would then be able to use this evidence against him to bring him to justice.

It was not a typical mission for SHIELD; this kind of thing was usually left to domestic law enforcement. When Clint had questioned Director Fury on why the Hungarian police could not do this themselves, Fury had said that there were concerns of moles working within the police force.

Dominik Nagy was a powerful man, and a dangerous one. He was suspected of being the mastermind behind the majority of illegal arms sales in Hungary. Natasha had heard of him when she had worked for the KGB, but her employers had had no reason to go after him, seeing as he was staying away from Russia.

The mission should not have presented any problems. Clint and Natasha were effectively just conducting a very secretive photoshoot. There was to be no fighting, no engaging with the target at all. They were just supposed to slip in, take some photographs and slip out.

That was the plan.

Easy, supposedly.

Budapest was a beautiful city; a mixture of old and new architecture, bisected by the majestic Danube River which flowed through its heart like a silver ribbon.

Natasha and Clint were positioned near the top of the Church of Mary Magdalene's tower. They had intercepted intelligence that a deal was to take place in the square below and had decided that the church tower offered the best vantage point from which to view and photograph it.

They were crouched near one of the narrow tower windows. Clint had set up the camera and Natasha was on the lookout for Dominik Nagy and any suspicious activity.

They had been there for several hours already, silently watching and waiting. There were no wisecracks or banter thrown between them; they were both professionals on a job.

Natasha watched as a group of men and women dressed in black started congregating in the square below. They were dressed smartly, with some of the women wearing transparent veils over their faces. A funeral procession. Natasha shifted her attention away from them. There was nothing unusual about a funeral party being near a church, after all.

Just then, movement at the other end of the square caught her eye.

"Over there," she said sharply, pointing to the three newcomers as they started walking slowly across the square towards a car that had just pulled up near the church. "Dominik Nagy and two bodyguards."

Nagy and his cronies snaked through the crowd of mourners without looking at them, their attention fixed solely on the man in grey who had just stepped out of his car – the buyer.

Beside her, Clint started snapping photographs. The camera clicked repeatedly as Clint look photo after photo, not wanting any single detail to go unrecorded. As Nagy and his men neared the church, Clint shifted his position slightly, pointing the camera downwards so that he could get a better angle on the men below.

As he moved, sunlight reflected off the lens for an instant, the flash of it catching Natasha's eye as it reflected off the window they were peering through.

As soon as it happened, several things happened very quickly.

Firstly, a member of the funeral procession looked up. He instantly pointed up to their position in the tower and shouted something. As soon as he did so, all the other people who Natasha had presumed were mourners pulled out guns. This prompted the remainder of the people who were milling about in the square to erupt into screams.

All this happened in less than a second. Natasha had no time to shout a warning to Clint, who had not noticed what was happening, his attention being so focused on his camera, snapping photos of the arms deal taking place below.

Without thinking, she launched herself at him, rugby tackling him to the floor just as the first bullets smashed through the window and ricocheted off the old stone wall of the tower.

Clint's face was inches from her own, his eyes wide in shock and his body rigid at the sudden turn of events. From his perspective, having not noticed the flurry of activity triggered when the sun had flared off his lens, Natasha supposed that this must be all the more frightening.

"What's going on?" he demanded, sitting up but keeping his head below the window as Natasha slid off him with an apologetic wince.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Natasha gingerly got to her feet and dared to take a peek out of the broken window to look down at the chaos going on in the square below. Dominik Nagy, his two body guards and the man he had been meeting had all disappeared. Innocent civilians were running around in panic, screaming as they scrambled to get away from the gun-wielding people in black.

Out of these 10 black-clad individuals, Natasha saw that 5 were running into the church and 5 remained outside.

When she spoke, she was surprised at how calm she sounded.

"There are ten hostiles, dressed in black," she reported. "Five inside the church, five outside."

Clint immediately reached for his belt and drew his gun.

"Do we know who they are?" he asked, all traces of shock gone as his training took over.

Natasha shook her head.

"No," she said. "But they’re targeting us."

Clint stood up, careful to stay away from the broken window in case one of the gunmen outside decided to take a shot at him.

"Shit," he said, his expression grim. "We're not equipped for this. This was meant to be a non-combat mission. I only have my gun. That's six bullets."

Natasha had been banned from having her own weapon, as Director Fury did not trust her not to turn on them. She had consented to it, on the assumption that the mission would not include any fighting.

Suddenly, a feeling of calmness washed over her.

"Six bullets are more than enough," she said, meeting Clint's gaze and holding it steadily.

Natasha did not need weapons to fight. She had been raised to complete any and every kind of combat mission, including those where she was not granted the luxury of a weapon. She had killed with her hands tied behind her back before – literally. All of a sudden, she felt sure that everything would be fine.

They became aware of footsteps running up the spiral staircase towards their position, the clattering of the assailants' boots echoing in the confines of the church tower. Clint swiftly moved in front of Natasha, gun outstretched at the ready, his finger wrapped around the trigger.

He fired the instant the first man came into view, shooting him straight in the head. The man fell backwards, dead, crashing down onto the people who were following directly behind him.

Natasha heard their shouts of pain as they fell hard down the spiral staircase. At least one bone broke with a painful-sounding snap. A hail of bullets sprayed in Clint and Natasha's direction, missing them by inches.

Clint jumped down into the chaos. Natasha heard him fire off three more shots in quick succession, followed by three thumps as the bodies hit the floor. Natasha quickly followed him down the tight staircase, rounding a corner to see an assailant who appeared to have lost his gun, sneaking up on Clint from behind, a knife in his hand.

Without thinking, Natasha hurled herself down the staircase, jumping down onto the man's shoulders. She wrapped her thighs around the man's neck, clenching her muscles and twisting sharply. The man's neck broke with a sharp snap. She leapt off his body as it tumbled down the stairs, landing gracefully on her feet next to Clint.

"Thanks," he said.

Natasha gave him a brief smile in return, before the two of them descended the stairs together, ducking down low whenever they passed another window. Natasha focused her mind as they walked through pools of blood and stepped over the five bodies.

Five down, five to go. Unless more had entered the church, then the remainder of the attackers were outside waiting for them in the square. Clint had two bullets left. Natasha swallowed back her nerves, forcing herself to concentrate on practical ways in which they could regain an advantage and get out of this alive.

Clint bent down, picking up a handgun from one of the dead attackers and handing it to Natasha.

"Take this," he said, his eyes wide and serious.

Natasha hesitated. Director Fury had explicitly banned her from having weapons. He did not trust her. For Clint to arm her would be a serious breach of protocol. She did not care much for protocol herself, but she did not want Clint to lose his job; he had a baby to provide for.

"I'm not allowed to have a weapon," she said carefully. "Director Fury doesn't trust me."

Clint shook his head immediately, pushing the gun closer to Natasha's hand, urging her to take it.

"I don't care," he said urgently. " _I_  trust you."

Natasha took the gun, curling her hand around it. It felt heavy with the weight of the metal and Clint's trust.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself against the sudden wave of adrenaline that had surged through her system. She was not sure if it was from holding her favoured weapon or the fact that Clint had just shown her, in the most literal way possible, that he trusted her with his life.

"There are five enemies in the square," Clint continued. "As soon as we step foot outside the church, start shooting. You take the left side, I'll take the right. Got it?"

Natasha nodded immediately, flicking off the safety catch on her gun.

"Yes, Agent Barton," she replied.

Clint nodded, leading the way out of the tower staircase and running down the centre of the church towards the doors. They reached the doors together, each of them grabbing a handle. On the count of three, they each wrenched a door open, stepping out into the square.

The square was eerily empty, the regular civilians having run away as soon as the shooting had started. Dominik Nagy and his contact were also long gone. The police were yet to arrive; Natasha wondered if it had anything to do with the moles that Dominik Nagy was suspected of having planted in the force.

Four men and women in black were stood spaced around the square, guns clasped in their hands and pointing in Natasha and Clint's direction. They paused, some adjusting their stances as they psyched themselves up for the kill.

Amateurs.

Natasha immediately raised her gun, firing two shots in quick succession as she saw Clint, standing to her right-hand side beside her, doing the same and dispatching the other two attackers with brutal efficiency. The four wannabe-assassins in black were dead within a second of Natasha and Clint stepping out of the church.

"There's still one attacker at large," said Natasha. "I definitely saw five earlier."

Clint started running towards one of the side streets that led off the square, gesturing for Natasha to follow him.

"Forget about the other attacker," he said, panting slightly as he ran. "We've blown our cover. We need to get out of here."

They ran down the old streets, beautiful architecture whizzing past in a blur as they sprinted along. Clint was leading them towards the Danube River; Natasha could tell because the gradient of the ground was dipping slightly as they pounded along the pavements towards their destination.

Finally, they rounded a corner and the Danube came into view, wide and beautiful-looking, its gorgeousness belying the dangerousness of its cold water and strong currents.

"There," said Clint, pointing to a small, powerful-looking speed boat that was tethered to the jetty, bobbing in the water. "Our escape boat."

Natasha huffed a sigh of relief, thankful that SHIELD had had the foresight to plan ahead in case things went wrong. They ran to the speed boat and boarded it. It was open-topped and just large enough for the two of them. Natasha glanced at the controls. She recognised them from her training, but took a back seat to let Clint take control and kick the little boat into life.

The boat roared off, kicking up spray as it whizzed away from the jetty, heading southwards towards the extraction point where their Quinjet was waiting.

The tension left Natasha as they moved quickly down the river, her muscles relaxing with every metre that they put between themselves and the Church of Mary Magdalene.

She shot a grin towards Clint, feeling happy and excited. Despite the sudden appearance of the attackers, they had completed the mission. They had captured photographic evidence of Dominik Nagy's dealings and had taken out nine of his cronies as well. Added to that, neither of them had sustained any injuries. Natasha considered that a win. Clint smiled back at her.

_Crack!_

Clint's smile was frozen in place for a second. Time seemed to stretch out as if on an elastic band. Natasha's ears heard the gunshot, but her mind struggled to catch up as she watched, powerless, as Clint's mouth transformed from a smile into a small ‘o’ of surprise. His eyes bulged as he fell backwards and crashed into the river.

He disappeared under the dark water immediately.

The sound of Clint hitting the water kicked Natasha into action. She leapt forward, turning off the boat's engine and stripping off her coat. Looking to the shore, her heart jumped to her throat as she saw a single man dressed in the black: the final attacker.

She immediately jumped into the water, making herself a smaller target, pulling out her gun and flicking off the safety catch with wet fingers. She closed one eye, slowing her breathing and forcing herself to calm down as she bobbed up and down in the swell of the water. Panic rose in her chest – _Clint was drowning_ – but she quashed it down viciously, slamming her mind into a cold, marble-like state in less than a second.

She regarded the lone black-clad attacker coldly. She did not see the person, did not see their black hair or dark eyes. In his place, she saw a shooting target, a human-shaped board like she had practiced on countless times in the Red Room Academy.

The river water was chilling her quickly, the waves and currents jostling her around unforgivingly. For anyone else, it would have been an impossible shot. She exhaled as she pulled the trigger, knowing the instant the bullet left the chamber that she had shot a perfect bullseye. She threw the gun back into the boat just as the attacker's body fell to the ground.

Without another look at the shore, she took a deep breath and plunged under the water.

For a brief moment, she was reminded of the drowning part of her Red Room Academy final year examinations, where Madame B had held her head underwater for two whole minutes. She drew strength from the experience, feeling a sudden, unexpected rush of gratitude towards Madame B. She had survived this before; she could do it again.

She took strong strokes as she swam downwards, ignoring the chill that immediately seeped down to her bones and the heavy weight of her wet clothes. She strained her eyes to see. It stung her eyes and it was difficult to see clearly in the murky river water, but several metres below her, she could suddenly make out a dark shape, sinking slowly.

The shape was not moving.

She felt a cold stab in her heart that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water or the dropping oxygen levels in her blood. She kicked herself the final few metres down the Clint's level, positioning herself behind him and wrapping an arm around her chest.

Refusing to give in to the panic that clawed at her when she felt he was no response, she swam upwards. Her muscles were screaming in protest. She was in agony from the length of time she had gone without oxygen and the levels of physical exertion that came with swimming fully clothed and with the additional weight of another human being.

Every pull and kick of her free arm and her legs made her feel as though her limbs were on fire. She felt dizzy and sick with oxygen deprivation, her movements becoming jerky and sluggish as they neared the surface. She could see the sun shimmering through the final few metres of water, the shafts of light looking blurred and warped, an illusion caused by a combination of the water itself and Natasha's addled brain.

Drawing on her last reserves of strength, she kicked desperately towards the light, feeling her lungs empty as she used up the last of her air.

They broke the surface violently.

Natasha's whole body jerked as she pulled in a huge lungful of air, almost swallowing a large quantity of river water in the process. She spat out the water and breathed deep again, glorious oxygen rushing back into her body, the dizziness and the ringing in her ears fading with every wonderful gasp of clean, cool air.

As soon as the strength returned to her muscles, she swam over to the boat, which had drifted slightly while they had been underwater, and hauled Clint and herself onto the boat.

Fear bloomed in her chest when she saw that he was not breathing. Immediately, she laid him on his back and tipped his head to the side, allowing water to drain out of his mouth and nose. She felt sick as murky water poured from his mouth.

As soon as the flow of water stopped, she pinched his nose and put her mouth over his, forming a tight seal with her lips and breathing four deep breaths into his mouth. Tilting her head to the side, she rested her ear against his mouth and watched his chest. There was no breath on her ear and no movement in Clint's chest. Squashing down another wave of panic, she repeated the process again, giving Clint four more breaths of life before putting her ear to his mouth and watching his chest once more.

Nothing.

Feeling increasingly desperate, she repeated the process again. Tears trickled down her cheeks and onto Clint's face as she gave him four more breaths. Panic and fear rose inside of her; Clint could not die, he simply _could not_ , not now, not like this. He had a family who loved and needed him. He was good and kind and deserved so much more than to drown in a river in Hungary on a mission that was small fry in the grand scheme of things. It would be terribly, horrifically unfair.

Laura would be devastated.

Cooper would grow up without a father.

Clint's convulsed violently, his chest expanding as he sucked in his first unassisted breath for what felt like an age. Natasha almost cried with relief as he started breathing by himself, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, if weakly.

He was still unconscious.

Clint's lips had a bluish tinge and Natasha swallowed hard. Clint was not safe yet. Unless Natasha got him warmed up soon, hypothermia was a real danger. He had been under the cold water for perhaps a minute; his body temperature had dropped dramatically.

She clumsily started stripping him of his clothes, a task made all the more difficult by the fact that they were wet and Clint was heavy and unresponsive. She wrestled him out of his jacket, t-shirt, shoes, socks and trousers, leaving his boxers on and averting her eyes to retain his dignity. She grabbed her jacket, which was dry as she had removed it before jumping into the water, and used it to dry him as effectively as she could.

By the time she was finished, Clint's lips looked substantially less blue, but she had noticed, with yet another spurt of panic, a gunshot wound to his shoulder that was bleeding profusely. Without thinking, she tore off a strip of material from her own t-shirt and quickly tied a makeshift tourniquet around his arm to stem the bleeding. It was a rough job, but it would do until they could get some proper back up.

Once again, she found herself supremely grateful for the education she had received at the Red Room Academy. For all the evil it had put her through, it had at least taught her the skills needed to keep her and Clint alive.

Settling down in front of the boat's controls, she started it up and sped as fast as she could down the Danube, heading south towards the extraction point where they had left the Quinjet.

She glanced back at Clint every few seconds, checking his pulse every few minutes, hyper-vigilant to any change in his condition. He seemed to be stable, but Natasha was not going to let herself relax until they were safely back at the Quinjet and she got to work on fixing up his shoulder.

She was also increasingly worried about his continued unconsciousness. She knew that sometimes, after suffering trauma, the body would shut down all but the most essential functions in an attempt to heal itself faster. Consciousness was not classed as essential, and so sometimes patients would be unconscious for hours, even days, as their bodies battled to heal themselves. Natasha fervently hoped that this was the case with Clint, and that he had not suffered brain damage as a result of spending so much time underwater.

She found herself reflecting on everything that Clint had done for her since Sao Paulo. He had welcomed her into his home, accepted her instantly as part of his family, baked cookies with her as they traded stories. He was kind and genuine, strong yet gentle, and Natasha had never realised just how much Clint meant to her until now, when he was still and weak by her feet, his breathing shallow and his lips still slightly blue.

"Hold on, Clint," she said, her voice cracking a little on his name.

She could not lose him. He was family, just as much as James and Elena had been. She loved him as much as she would love a biologically-related brother. The thought of losing him was terrible, terrifying, unfathomable.

What if she had noticed the man on the shore before he had shot Clint? What if she had been more suspicious of the black-clad funeral mourners? What if she had swum a little faster to reach him when they were underwater?

If anything happened to Clint, she would never be able to forgive herself. Her heart clenched as she thought about Laura and Cooper. Clint was their world, as much as they were his. Laura needed her soulmate. Cooper needed his daddy.

She finally reached the jetty that marked the extraction point and switched off the engine. They were in the countryside now, which luckily meant that there were no onlookers around. She hooked an arm around Clint's waist and flipped him so that she was carrying him over her shoulder.

She staggered slightly as she struggled off the bobbing boat with their combined weight, but once she was on solid ground she started up a brisk jog towards the Quinjet, moving as fast as she could under Clint's weight. She gripped his hand tightly, urging him to hold on just a little longer.

As they approached the Quinjet, the back of it opened. Natasha was not sure how – if there was someone watching remotely through the cameras that adorned the plane operating the Quinjet’s controls, or if there was facial recognition technology that opened the vehicle for any approved agent automatically. She did not care. The only thing that was important was that she could finally get Clint warmed up and give his shoulder proper medical attention.

She clambered up the ramp and pulled out a retractable bed from the wall, laying Clint down on it as gently as possible. She ran to the front of the plane, manipulating the Quinjet's controls as she had seen Clint do that morning to close the ramp. She exhaled with relief when she heard the ramp's machinery whirring into life; she had been half-afraid that the buttons were configured only to respond to SHIELD operatives’ fingerprints.

With the ramp closed, she turned up the heating to get warm air circulating and rushed back to Clint at the back of the plane.

She hovered over him for a moment, laying a hand on his skin, feeling a wave of relief when she felt that he was a lot warmer than when she had first pulled him from the river. His cheeks were finally taking on a healthier, pinkish glow. The last of the blueness finally left his lips.

Natasha quickly started opening drawers in an effort to find a first aid kit. Finally finding one, she took out medical disinfectant and thread. She carefully cleaned the wound and started sewing up the entry and exit wounds. The bullet had gone straight through his flesh, miraculously missing his bones and ligaments.

Once she was finished, she let out a shaky sigh, bringing up a chair and settling down next to him. She gripped his hand tightly as she watched him vigilantly for any sign he may be coming around.

He looked peaceful, as if he were sleeping. His pale eyelashes rested on his cheeks. Natasha's heart clenched painfully. She had never realised before just how much she liked to see those clear blue eyes.

"Come on, Clint," she murmured, rubbing the back of his hand gently with her thumb.

Clint laid still, his breathing deep and even, his eyes shut.

"I love you," Natasha whispered. "Have I ever told you that before? You're my family."

Clint, of course, did not reply.

Natasha brushed away a few stray tears from her cheeks and waited for him to wake.

 

* * *

 

Natasha sat on the farmhouse porch, watching the dry grass of the meadow blow in the breeze.

It was still and quiet; Cooper was having a nap and Laura was busy writing another chapter of a new novel she was working on. The story was about two lovers who had shared a romance when they were young, before being separated by their circumstances, only to be reunited near the ends of their lives.

Laura had been spending a lot of time writing recently, ever since they had returned from Budapest. Natasha wondered if it helped her to process what had happened.

Natasha rubbed her left upper arm. It was still sore from the vaccinations she had had to receive as a result of swimming in the river water. The SHIELD doctor who had treated her when back-up had finally arrived – a young British woman, Jemma something – had apologised for the sheer number of vaccinations that were required. Natasha did not mind; she did was not afraid of vaccinations. When she was eight, Madame B had tortured the girls with needles, to prove to them that even though they could cause pain, they did not cause lasting damage and were therefore not worthy of fear.

She watched the grass swaying, the soft rustling sound filling her ears, as the air slowly started to cool as the sun began to set.

Footsteps sounded from inside the house, getting closer. Natasha did not turn around, mesmerised by the meadow. Clint hobbled out and sat down next to her on the porch step, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Natasha glanced across at him, her eyes lingering on his arm, which was in a sling. Cooper had drawn on it with purple pen. Clint was wearing the childish squiggles like a badge of honour.

"I just got off the phone with Fury," said Clint, pulling out two small glass bottles of lemonade from behind him and passing one to Natasha. She accepted it wordlessly. "He said what we pretty much knew already – that the people in black were Dominik Nagy's bodyguards. He said he was sorry for not foreseeing that Nagy's security would be so massive."

Natasha took a sip of the lemonade. It was refreshing and cool from being in the fridge. She wondered if Clint wanted to drink something stronger; he was not allowed to drink alcohol because of the pain medications he was on while his shoulder healed. His near-death experience had left Natasha and Laura very shaken, and although Clint acted as though everything was fine, Natasha would sometimes catch him with a sombre, distant look on his face.

"I told Fury that you saved my life," continued Clint, when Natasha stayed silent.

Natasha squinted at the way the setting sun splashed the meadow with colour as she rubbed a finger through the dewy condensation on her glass bottle.

"What did he say to that?" she asked.

Clint shrugged, taking a long drink of lemonade.

"Not a lot," he said. "But Fury doesn't tend to say a lot. He's a secretive guy."

Natasha looked down at her lemonade. She wondered what Director Fury thought of her. She wondered what the SHIELD agents who had eventually come to her and Clint's rescue thought of her. None of them had spoken to her, apart from the kind British doctor who had given her a thorough check up and administered her vaccinations. Perhaps they were afraid of her. She knew that her reputation preceded her in a pretty big way.

She felt a rush of shame. She did not want people to be afraid of her.

A gentle touch to her shoulder brought her out of her thoughts. She looked across at Clint, who was looking at her intently, his blue eyes filled with a strange mixture of warmth and solemnness.

"I want to thank you," he said quietly. "You saved my life. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead, Laura would be a widow and Cooper wouldn't have a father. All three of us owe you so much. So... thanks."

Natasha ducked her head, avoiding Clint's eyes, staring at the trees at the bottom of the meadow instead.

"A penny for your thoughts?" said Clint.

Natasha stayed silent for a long while, battling internally with herself over whether what she was thinking was too dark or depressing to say out loud. She decided, eventually, that she owed Clint the truth.

"I can count the number of lives I've saved on one hand, with fingers left over," she said finally. "You from drowning in the Danube in Budapest, and a girl from the Red Room Academy – Tatiana – from burning to death in a hospital fire in Murmansk."

She ticked them off on two of her fingers to demonstrate her point. Clint looked at her fingers too, nodding quietly.

"But I... I have no idea how many people I've killed. It's hundreds. I lost count years ago."

She said the last sentence in a rush. She flushed with shame as she bowed her head and stared at the ground. There. She had said it. She had revealed just how much of a monster she was.

She had never told anyone before how many people she had murdered – the fact that she could not even  _remember_. She waited for the expected outburst of shock and disgust from Clint, but it did not come.

When she finally mustered up the courage to look across at the man, he had a calm, pensive expression on his face as he fiddled with his lemonade bottle absent-mindedly.

"That doesn't matter," he said eventually. "It's what you're doing now that counts. You can't change the past, only the future."

He looked over at Natasha and gave her hand a gentle squeeze with his own. Natasha looked down at their joined hands and felt another rush of shame and self-hatred; she did not deserve his kindness.

"You're a good person, Nat," he said seriously.

Natasha shook her head, removing her hand from his.

"No," she said. "I'm not."

Clint looked at her for a long while, a sad smile on his face.

"Yes, you are," he said, as if he were simply stating facts. "One day, you may even see it."

That sat on the porch in silence as they sipped the rest of their lemonade, watching the grass blow and the birds fly.

They watched the sun sink below the horizon, until eventually the rapidly dropping temperature forced them to get up and head back inside into their home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE CHURCH OF MARY MAGDALENE - This is a real Church in Budapest. It really does have a tower and it really is in front of a square! Check it out on Google Maps if you want to see where the beginning of this chapter was set! (Make sure you look at the one in Budapest, I think there is a more famous Church with the same name in Jerusalem.)
> 
> DOMINIK NAGY: It turns out this is the name of a popular Hungarian footballer. Obviously, I am not suggesting that he, or anyone else with this name, is an arms dealer!
> 
> JEMMA SIMMONS - Are there any Agents of SHIELD fans reading this? I hope you enjoyed Jemma Simmons' cameo as the doctor who gave Natasha her vaccinations!
> 
> LAURA'S NOVEL - "The story was about two lovers who had shared a romance when they were young, before being separated by their circumstances, only to be reunited near the ends of their lives." This is actually the plot for a fic that I'm going to write after I've finished Fearless. It will be a Steve/Bucky story. I will start this story in the second half of 2017, I imagine, as I predict that Fearless will take until June 2017 to finish. If you're interested in this Steve/Bucky story, click on my profile and become a "User Subscriber" so that you'll get an email when I post the new fic :)
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "SHIELD" and will introduce a new character: Phil Coulson!
> 
> THANK YOU: As always, a massive thank you to all of you who are leaving such wonderful comments! They seriously make me SOOOO happy and I just love it you guys get in touch <3 If you've been a silent lurker so far, don't be afraid to say hi!
> 
> A SPECIAL THANK YOU: I'd also like to thank GentleTouchGinger (gingerthesnap on Tumblr) and Rockersocks (rocker-socks on Tumblr) who helped me out with an American English question! I'm British, so I wasn't sure if a certain phrase said by Clint in this chapter was used in America ("A penny for your thoughts?"). I asked for help on Tumblr and both these lovely individuals very kindly replied! Thank you, GentleTouchGinger and Rockersocks, for helping make this fic as linguistically realistic as possible! :D I'd hate for Clint (an American) to say a phrase that's only used here in the UK... *is a stickler for detail*


	21. SHIELD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of the plot, this fic will ignore the Iron Man films - just in case you were wondering why it's 2008 and the events of the Iron Man films are not happening!
> 
> As always, there is [chapter art](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/158266388321/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter) on my Tumblr.

2008 – Aged 24

 

* * *

 

It was several months after Budapest when Natasha experienced her first snow in America.

She was awoken that morning by Cooper's delighted yell, quickly followed by the excited two-year-old jumping up onto her bed and bouncing insistently. Natasha rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she groaned. Her hands were quickly grabbed by a much smaller pair.

"Snow! Snow!" shouted Cooper, pointing towards the window before jumping off her bed to run into his parents' bedroom and inform them of the exciting news.

Natasha's sleepiness left her at once. She climbed out of bed and padded the short distance to the window, drawing back the curtains to reveal that the meadow was indeed covered in a thick blanket of snow.

She smiled automatically. She loved the snow. When she was young, her and Elena had had snowball fights and built snowgirls. They had made snow angels once, lying on their backs in the pure, white snow and creating the illusion of wings by moving their arms. Madame B had told them off severely for getting their clothes soaked, but it had been worth it. Snow reminded her of home – not of Russia, but of childhood memories with Elena.

She got dressed excitedly, wrapping herself up warmly with a hat and scarf that Laura had knitted for her a few weeks before. As she left her bedroom, she saw a sleepy-looking Clint and Laura emerging from their bedroom, similarly dressed, with a happily jumping toddler holding onto both of their hands.

Clint caught her eye and winked.

"Last one to the meadow's a big fat loser," he challenged, scooping up Cooper into his arms as he dashed towards the top of the stairs.

Natasha put on a burst of speed, hot on his heels, unceremoniously cutting in front of Laura as the other woman shouted that it was unfair for her to be pitched against two highly trained agents.

Natasha laughed giddily at the ridiculousness of the race, a heady mixture of fondness and excitement unfurling in her chest as she and Clint ran down the stairs towards the front door. The sound of Cooper's squeals of excitement, as well as the adults' laughter, made her warm in a way that did not diminish when Clint threw open the front door, letting in a gust of cold air, and jumped down the steps.

Natasha ran out next, momentarily dazzled by the brightness of the snow. She jumped down the steps after Clint and Cooper, who was now standing next to his father and clapping his hands.

Laura emerged last, having come down the stairs at a much more sensible speed than Clint and Natasha's mad scramble, her lips quirked in a small smile.

"Looks like Mommy's the big fat loser," Clint said seriously.

Laura gave her husband a scowl as she scooped up a soft snowball and hurled it in his direction. It exploded on his jacket with a soft puff, causing Clint's eyes to crinkle up with a mischievous grin as he bent down to scoop up his own snowball.

"Loser! Loser!" Cooper cried jubilantly.

Natasha laughed as Cooper span around on the spot, shouting 'loser' excitedly as he pointed at various things, including all three adults, the house, a plant pot and a pile of snow. Natasha almost fell over from laughing so hard when Cooper started excitedly pointing at his own shoes and calling them losers.

"Hey, think fast!" came Clint's voice out of nowhere.

It was all the warning Natasha got, before a huge snowball hit her in the middle of her chest. Her eyes narrowed as they zeroed in on her target, tracking Clint's movements as he ran through the snow away from her.

"Hey Cooper," she grinned. "Want to help me get your daddy with a really big snowball?"

The little boy squealed with delight as he nodded his head vigorously, rushing over to Natasha's side immediately. The two of them started piling together a big heap of snow, sneaking glances at Clint every now and then.

Clint was crouched low, creeping closer and closer, dropping down to lie down in the snow whenever Cooper looked up, making the boy giggle madly.

When Clint finally came within a few metres of them, Natasha bent down low to whisper in Cooper's ear: "Let get him."

Cooper let out a yell as he flapped his arms, flinging snow at his father with wild abandon. Natasha laughed as she joined in, covering Clint from head to toe in soft snow.

"Come on, Laura!" she called.

Laura shook her head with a smile, hanging back from the snow fight, seemingly content with watching the madness from a distance.

Clint let out a roar, as if he were some injured beast, staggering through the snow with an exaggerated limp, which caused Cooper to giggle even harder as he chased after his father.

Clint finally reached Laura, where he planted a gentle kiss on her cheek, wrapping his arms around her and whispering something in her ear that Natasha could not hear. Laura returned the hug and shook her head with a smile, pushing Clint back towards Cooper and Natasha, urging him to continue the snow fight.

"I'm going to head inside," said Laura, giving them all a wink before heading indoors.

Natasha gave her a wave as Clint blew her a kiss, before Cooper's scream of laughter snapped her attention back to the present situation, which mainly involved Clint rolling in the snow with Cooper held aloft in his arms. Natasha jogged over to them, tickling the little boy and sprinkling snow on him as he writhed and laughed in Clint's arms.

"Daddy!" he giggled, his small hands reaching out to grab onto Clint as they continued to roll around in the snow. "Auntie Nat!"

Clint dropped him gently into a snowdrift, causing Cooper to once again squeal with joy.

"Yes, baby?" he asked sweetly, watching Cooper awkwardly wriggle out of the snowdrift with exactly the lack of grace one would expect from a two year old.

"Can we make snow angels?" Cooper begged. "Please, Daddy! Please, Auntie Nat!"

Clint cocked his head to the side, rubbing his chin as he pretended to think about it. Cooper was practically bouncing up and down as he waited for his father to reply, his big blue eyes round and hopeful. Natasha hid her grin behind her hand.

"Hmm, I suppose so," Clint said finally, after a dramatic pause. "But only if we do them in front of the window so Mommy can see, OK?"

"OK, Daddy!" Cooper shouted, already racing through to snow back towards the house as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Natasha watched after him, silent and sombre for a moment, as she remembered with a pang how Elena had been just as excited at the prospect of making snow angels when they had been little girls.

A gentle touch to her shoulder brought her back to reality.

"You OK?" asked Clint, his eyes soft and kind.

Natasha nodded, blinking away the tears that she had not even noticed had formed in her eyes.

"Yeah," she replied. "Snow just brings back memories of an old friend."

Clint gave her shoulder a squeeze, a silent gesture of solidarity which Natasha was grateful for.

Natasha took a deep breath, letting out a shaky laugh that became much more genuine when she saw Cooper jumping in the snow near the house, hollering excitedly.

"Come on," she said, giving Clint a wink. "Last one back to the house is a big fat loser."

She kicked snow in his direction, darting out in front of him as he yelled in indignation.

She raced back to the house, gently tackling Cooper over when she reached him, both of them falling into the snow in peals of laughter.

Clint caught up with them a moment later, his cheeks flushed and a faux indignant frown on his face.

As they made snow angels in front of the windows, to the sound of Laura's laughter as she watched them from inside the house, Natasha could not help but wish that it were possible to record moments like these – precious moments of ordinary perfection that came and went as silently as snow.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Natasha was practicing in Clint's shooting range.

The paint gun was splattering the targets with multi-coloured bullseyes as she put herself through her paces. She switched hands, closed her eyes, held her breath to simulate a low oxygen environment – anything and everything she could think of to properly challenge herself and keep her skills sharp.

She shot another bullseye and smiled. Shooting relaxed her in a way that little else did. Each movement was fluid, the gun feeling like an extension of her body rather than a separate entity. Her breath fogged up in front of her in the crisp winter air. In the distance, she could hear Cooper shouting and laughing as he played in the snow with Laura.

Turning to another target, she switched the paint gun to her left hand and wrapped her finger around the trigger. Just as she fired, something whooshed past her and the target was hit simultaneously by the paint ball and an arrow. Both were perfect bullseyes.

Natasha turned around to see Clint standing a few metres behind her, grinning.

"Nice shot," he said.

Natasha returned his smile as she stepped forward to pull him into a hug. Hugging and smiling was something she was gradually becoming more and more at ease doing, much to the Bartons' delight.

"Thanks," she said, before nodding at the target, where Clint's arrow was still quivering in the dead centre. "Not bad yourself."

Clint accepted a compliment with a smile as he gestured for her to sit down with him on a log.

Natasha brushed a layer of snow away and sat down, waiting expectantly for Clint to speak as he settled down next to her.

"I just got off the phone with my superior officer," he said, getting straight to the point. "He says that SHIELD is very impressed with your performance in the last 10 trial missions we've done together."

Clint's gaze softened as he regarded Natasha with his clear blue eyes.

"I'm proud of you too," he added. "You've done great. And, well, Budapest. You... you saved my life."

Natasha laid a hand on his knee as Clint composed himself, giving him a smile when he finally looked back up after wiping his eyes.

"My superior officer is interested in meeting you, if you'd like," he continued, his voice steadier. "It's your choice – you don't have to if you don't want to."

Natasha nodded her head immediately. Over the last few months, they had completed ten successful missions together. They had mainly been reconnaissance missions, but a couple had been more interesting – collecting a package from inside a heavily-armed compound and rescuing an agent who had got pinned down by hostiles in an abandoned airbase. She had loved being back in the field; it made her feel productive, like she was making a positive difference in the world. It gave her a rush to know that she was finally getting to use her skills for good.

"I want to meet him," she said.

Clint smiled at her eagerness, clearly pleased with her answer despite his insistence that it was OK for her to say no.

"Great," he grinned. "Let's go."

He stood up and started leading the way through the woods back towards the meadow. It was only then that Natasha noticed he was wearing his SHIELD uniform. She looked at the dark clothing, her eyes lingering on the SHIELD insignia.

She wondered what it would look like on her arm.

As they made their way through the meadow, snow crunching underfoot, Natasha wondered exactly why Clint's superior officer wanted to see her. She was not sure what the procedure was for people like her – she was not even sure if there  _was_ an established procedure for dealing with people like her.

She wondered if SHIELD was going to offer her a chance to start training to become an agent, or if they wanted to see her for a different reason entirely. Perhaps they had decided they wanted to see her imprisoned for the crimes she had committed as a KGB agent; they would be more than justified in doing so.

She noticed that Clint was leading her towards the Quinjet and glanced back towards the house. Laura and Cooper were building a snowman near the porch. The previous evening, Cooper had said that he wanted a snowman to be in front of the house to greet any visitors. In the year that Natasha had been living with the Bartons, she had never seen them have a single visitor, but she thought Cooper's sentiment was sweet nonetheless.

The back of the Quinjet opened up as they approached, the whir of the machinery a now familiar noise to Natasha.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as they climbed aboard the plane and made their way towards the cockpit.

"To a SHIELD base," said Clint. "My superior officer's already there."

He put out a hand to stop Natasha as they drew near to the cockpit. He shrugged awkwardly, his discomfort obvious as he gestured towards a seat in back of the plane instead.

"You'll have to sit back here, I'm afraid," he said. "Protocol says you're not allowed to see any sensitive information, and that includes the location of the base. Sorry."

Natasha forced a smile as she shook her head.

"It's fine," she said, trying not to let the disappointment show on her face. "We can still talk over the headsets."

Clint gave her a grin and a pat on the shoulder as she buckled up, before hurrying off to the cockpit.

Natasha secured a headset onto her head, trying to damp down the sadness that had surged out of nowhere when Clint had told her that she was not allowed to go in the cockpit. It was simply a security precaution – and a well-justified one – she knew that, but it still felt like a punch in the gut to be reminded of how little she was trusted.

The sound of the Quinjet's engines jerked her out of her spiralling thoughts and Natasha took a moment to simply admire the smoothness of Clint's flying. If it were not for the fact that she was sitting near a window, she would not have known that they had taken off at all.

Turbulence rocked the small plane for about a minute as the Quinjet rose through the clouds, until suddenly the flight became gloriously smooth and sunlight burst in through the windows as they rose above the cloud cover.

"Nice take off, pilot," she quipped, smiling automatically when she heard Clint laugh over comms.

"Thanks, Nat," he replied, his laughter tapering off into silence rather strangely.

Natasha tensed in her seat, every instinct telling her that something was wrong. She knew Clint's laugh, she knew when he was being open and when he was hiding things from her. Right now, he was definitely hiding something and, for some reason, it sent chills down her spine.

All of a sudden, she found herself scrutinising everything that had happened since Clint had appeared at the shooting range. The fact he was wearing his uniform, the fact she was being held in the back of the plane, the fact he was very clearly hiding something from her. Perhaps Clint had been ordered to kill her, and he was going to jettison her from the aircraft. Perhaps his superior officer wanted her bringing in for questioning over her crimes. Perhaps they were going to torture her.

"Laura's pregnant. She's three months along."

Natasha's increasingly destructive train of thought crashed off the rails at Clint's words. She was momentarily stunned, simply at the dissonance between what she had assumed and what Clint had said, and then his words actually hit home.

A smile slowly started spreading across her face as she allowed the news to sink in.

"Oh wow, congratulations!"

She found herself grinning so widely that her cheeks ached, joy blooming in her chest at the thought of Clint and Laura with another baby Barton.

She remembered how Laura had not joined in the snowball fight, how she had walked down the stairs rather than running, all the little bits and pieces slotting into place now that she had the final piece of the puzzle.

"You must be so excited," she said, her huge grin refusing to budge from her face.

"We are," said Clint, after the tiniest of pauses.

Natasha frowned, cocking her head to the side.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked. "Is the baby OK?"

She heard Clint gasp slightly at the other end of the line before he shook his head and rushed on.

"Oh no, the baby's fine," he reassured her quickly. "I was just thinking about where she would sleep. She'll need her own room and right now we don't have a spare room. I was thinking... If you're employed by SHIELD by the time she's born, you won't  _have_ to stay at mine anymore."

Natasha's heart sank as she began to realise where this conversation was going.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess once I pass their assessments or whatever, they'll let me live wherever I want," she said, her voice sounding hollow to her ears.

"I'm not kicking you out or anything," Clint said hurriedly. "You're welcome to stay for as long as you want, really. I'm just wondering whether I need to start building an extension or not. I just need to think ahead. Do you think you'd want to move out, if SHIELD took you on and the restrictions were lifted on where you can live?"

Nausea and anxiety settled over her as she thought back to how lonely it had been living in her little flat in Moscow. Moving out would mean no more baking cookies with Clint, no more discussing books with Laura and no more playing hide-and-seek with Cooper. The thought of leaving the Bartons made her heart ache, the desire to stay with them so strong that it was almost a physical pain.

 _I don't want to leave,_ she thought.

"I'm happy to do whatever's most convenient for you," she said out loud.

Clint sighed on the other end of the line, the sound a burst of static in her ears.

"I don't want you to think about what's most convenient for us, Nat," he said softly. "I want you to think about what  _you_ want."

Natasha swallowed back the misery that was threatening to spill over inside her and concentrated on the simple ballet routine she had learnt when she was 17.

Marble.

"I will probably move out, yes," she said, and if her voice sounded a little robotic, Clint did not notice over comms.

It would be selfish of her to make Clint build a whole new extension to his house simply because she did not want to be away from them. Clint and Laura should be allowed to concentrate on preparing for the arrival of their second child without the stress of renovating.

It was the right thing to do, she told herself. To stay would be selfish. She had already taken far more of their hospitality than she deserved. It was time for her to move on and allow them some peace and normality as they prepared to welcome the new baby. She had lived alone before and she could do it again. She wondered if they would want to keep in touch with her.

"Cool," said Clint, sounding much more relaxed now that he had an answer, oblivious to her distress at the back of the plane. "Do you have any ideas for names? It's a girl."

Natasha listened to the excitement in Clint's voice and tried to focus on that rather than the painful prospect of leaving the Bartons that was gnawing at her stomach.

"How about a flower name?" she suggested softly, careful to keep any hint of sadness out of her voice. "She'll be born in the summer, right? The meadow's full of beautiful flowers in the summer."

Clint hummed with interest and excitement over comms.

Natasha closed her eyes as a tear slipped down her cheeks.

"Rosie? Poppy? Daisy? Heather? Jasmine?" Clint churned out.

_Poppies, to match your hair._

_Buttercups, because yellow is your favourite colour._

Natasha pushed the intrusive memories away, forcing herself to think about the meadow that surrounded the Bartons' farmhouse, rather than the meadows that covered the hills surrounding the Red Room Academy.

Her favourite flowers in Clint's meadow were the small, delicate, lilac-coloured ones that grew near the woods.

"How about Lila?" she suggested, remembering the soft feeling of the little lilac flowers under her fingers.

Clint's hum of interest rumbled down the line.

"Lila. Lila Barton. Lila, honey, put away your toys. Lila, play nicely with Cooper," said Clint, trying out the name out loud. "It's definitely a contender. I'll suggest it to Laura when we get home."

Clint sounded so happy over the crackly line. Natasha listened to the sound, committing it to memory, heartbroken at the thought that very soon she may not hear it nearly as often.

The uncomfortable feeling in her chest spread to her ears and after a few minutes she had to yawn to ease the pressure. Her hearing became sharper with a loud pop.

"Are we descending already?" she asked, surprised.

They had only been in the air for what felt like 30 minutes.

"Yep. Almost there," Clint replied.

Natasha took a deep breath, her sadness about having to move out from the Bartons' farmhouse being replaced by the more immediate nervousness associated with meeting Clint's superior officer.

It was strange. Before, when she had been a Red Room Academy student and a KGB agent, she had never got nervous about meeting new people. It was only now, when she was trying to prove that she could reform, that she found herself caring about what other people thought of her. She remembered the suspicion and fear in the faces of the SHIELD agents that had come to their rescue in Budapest. She hated the fact that their fear and suspicion was well-founded.

"What's your superior officer like?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

Clint laughed, sounding warm and relaxed, which put Natasha slightly more at ease.

"His name is Phil Coulson," said Clint, his smile evident in his voice. "And he's a giant nerd."

 

* * *

 

Phil Coulson was a giant nerd.

His office was full of old gadgets that harked back to the analogue era, as well as countless trinkets that many would regard as clutter but which Phil obviously prided and adored. A model Quinjet sat on a shelf, alongside a model of a red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette. Captain America memorabilia festooned an entire side of a glass cabinet.

The office looked warm, welcoming and homely, not at all like the sterile, intimidating nightmare Natasha had envisaged for some reason.

She felt instantly more at ease as she looked around, her eyes falling on the messy piles of paper that sat on the desk. The winter sunlight streamed in through the large window, passing through a dreamcatcher that looked suspiciously similar to the ones that hung in the Barton farmhouse. Natasha wondered if either Clint or Phil had bought them for the other, or if they had gone on holiday together and bought matching dreamcatchers then. Either way, it suggested that Clint and Phil were close, and Natasha found herself relaxing even more.

By the time her eyes fell on the man behind the desk, a considerable amount of tension had left her shoulders.

Upon seeing them, Phil stood up, walking around the desk with a smile on his face. He pulled Clint into a hug first, before politely offering a hand to Natasha. She shook it, enjoying the feeling of the man's warm hand in her cold one; the walk from the Quinjet to the main building had been a chilly one.

Phil Coulson was a small, slim man. Around 5 foot 9 inches tall, he was not physically imposing, but he radiated a sort of quiet authority that instinctively instilled a sense of respect in Natasha. He had short, neatly-styled light brown hair, and blue eyes that were looking at her warmly. The corners of his eyes were crinkled up in a way that suggested he spent a good deal of his time smiling, and Natasha found herself smiling automatically in return.

"I'm Phil Coulson," he said warmly. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

He walked back around his desk and sat down, gesturing for Natasha and Clint to get comfortable in the leather seats opposite him.

"Thank you, sir," said Natasha. "I'm Natasha Romanoff. The pleasure is all mine."

Phil ducked his head in a way that could be described as adorable, except 40-something-year-old men could not really be termed as adorable, right?

Natasha instantly decided that she liked him. It was something about his office and his open, easy manner that told her that he was a good, decent person, right down to his core.

The Red Room Academy had taught her how to read people, and Natasha was getting a lot of good signals from Phil.

"Hey, new tie?" Clint butted in, pointing at the plain navy blue tie hanging from Phil's neck. "Going a bit wild there with the design, don't you think?"

Phil closed his eyes and shook his head, much like a long-suffering parent, but Natasha could hear the fondness behind his exasperated sigh.

"Please excuse Agent Barton," Phil said to Natasha. "He seems to have the mistaken impression that he's a comedian." Turning to Clint, he fingered his tie in a way that was somehow both authoritative and ridiculous. "This is the same tie I always wear every Thursday, as you well know."

A snort of laughter left Natasha before she could stop herself, because seriously, who designated their ties to particular days of the week? Her hand shot to her mouth immediately, her eyes widening in horror as she blushed furiously.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry," she stammered, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her whole. "That was so rude of me. I–"

Phil cut her off with a soft laugh and a casual wave of his hand, his eyes twinkling happily.

Natasha lapsed into silence, hoping that she had not just single-handedly ruined her chances of getting into SHIELD's good books with one stupid laugh at Phil's decidedly dull fashion sense.

"Are you a tea or a coffee person?" asked Phil, as if nothing had happened, reaching for the kettle behind him.

Natasha dared to look up once more, relief flooding through her when she saw that Phil did not look the least bit offended by her laughing at his daily coordinated ties.

"Coffee, please. Black," she said.

She watched as Phil made her coffee, before he poured a cup of milky tea for Clint without even having to ask. Natasha smiled at the familiarity and fondness with which the two men interacted with one another. She got the impression that they were good friends as well as colleagues.

"How's the family?" asked Phil, as he handed Clint his tea.

Clint accepted it with a smile, blowing over the top before taking a sip and sighing happily.

"They're good," he replied. "Baby Barton number 2 is on her way."

Phil's eyes lit up as he stood up again to lean across the table and shake Clint's hand. Clint accepted the handshake with a smile, trying not to spill his tea as Phil shook his hand vigorously. Natasha hid her grin behind her cup.

"Congratulations!" said Phil, still pumping Clint's hand enthusiastically. "That's awesome."

Clint smirked as Phil finally released his hand and sat back down, his eyes twinkling.

"Thanks, man," he replied. "Laura and I can't wait to meet her."

Phil gave Clint another fond smile before turning his attention to Natasha, his blue eyes meeting her green ones calmly.

"So, Natasha, let's get you up to date," he said. "I'm an agent of SHIELD, just like Clint. I'm also his superior officer, which means that I've been keeping an eye on the trial missions you guys have been doing together."

Reaching under his desk, he pulled out a file and spread out around a dozen or so photographs of Natasha and Clint on various missions. Some of the photographs had obviously been taken from satellites, but others looked as though they had been taken from nearby on the ground.

She spotted one photograph from Budapest – a satellite image of her pulling Clint's limp body from the Danube River back onto the boat. Her breath caught when she saw it; it looked so much more real to see it happening from above. It made her realise how close to dying Clint had come. She clenched her fists, pushing away the memories of the horror of that day and reminding herself that Clint was safe and well beside her.

"Your work on these missions has been exemplary," said Phil. "I'm impressed. I think you'd make a great SHIELD agent. You have the right skills and personality for the job."

Natasha fidgeted uncomfortably, lowering her gaze as she pondered what he meant. She had been raised to be a spy – cold, ruthless and single-minded. They were excellent skills for an agent, but for some reason she felt uncomfortable for those adjectives to be used to describe  _her_.

"When you say personality, do you mean cold and efficient?" she asked numbly, not sure if she wanted to hear his answer.

To her surprise, Phil shook his head, looking a little puzzled.

"The opposite," he said. "Well, no, you  _are_ efficient. But you're not cold – you have heart and a strong sense of loyalty and duty. You saved Clint's life at great personal risk to yourself. SHIELD will always welcome people like that."

Natasha smiled as Phil's words sank in. It warmed her, to hear herself described as having heart. Madame B would be appalled. Natasha felt as if a weight was being lifted off her shoulders.

"Thank you, sir," she replied.

Phil smiled at her, little dimples appearing in his cheeks.

"Call me Phil," he said, before leaning forward on his elbows, interlacing his fingers as he looked at her thoughtfully. "What do you know about SHIELD?"

Natasha sat up a little straighter as she dredged her memory for everything she knew about the organisation.

"SHIELD. Also known as the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division," she reeled off. "It's the US agency for espionage, law enforcement and counter-terrorism."

Phil nodded, his large blue eyes suddenly looking serious.

"That's right," he said. "But it's more than that. We  _are_ the shield that protects innocent people from all the terrible and weird threats out there."

Natasha saw Clint nodding along in her peripheral vision and suddenly gained a much deeper understanding of his devotion to SHIELD. He  _was_ the shield that kept Laura, Cooper and his unborn daughter safe from threats that wished to do them harm. There was no greater responsibility.

"Would you like to be a part of that?" asked Phil. "Would you like to become a part of the shield that protects the public from harm?"

Natasha shifted her gaze out of the window, staring at a flock of birds flying in the distance, silhouetted black against the pale blue sky by the winter sun. She thought of all the innocent people she had killed: the diplomat, Valentina Drakova, the mothers and babies in St. Anastasia's Maternity Hospital, and countless others who she could not even remember clearly. This could be an opportunity to right those wrongs. There was red on her ledger and she wanted to wipe it out. Perhaps this was the way in which she could do that.

It would excuse or undo her actions – little Valentina Drakova and all the other victims she had shot and stabbed and otherwise snuffed the life out of would remain dead – but perhaps this was the best way in which she could atone for what she had done. Perhaps when the time came for her to leave this world, she would be able to leave knowing that she had restored the balance and done as much good as evil.

She could use her skills to protect the innocent.

Laura.

Cooper.

"Yes," she replied quietly. "I'd like to be a part of that."

A part of SHIELD.

A part of  _the_ shield.

When she finally tore her eyes away from the window, she saw Clint and Phil both wearing identical smiles as they looked at her. They looked more than pleased; they looked proud. With a rush of insight, Natasha understood why; she had used her free will to turn her back on everything the Red Room Academy and the KGB had tried to guide her towards her whole life. She had decided to become a part of SHIELD, to use her skills for good, and it had been  _her_ choice.

Natasha knew, even though she did not understand the consequences of her decision right at that moment, that she had just made a decision that would change her life forever.

She lifted her chin, resolute in her decision.

"I want to join SHIELD," she reiterated, and it felt good to say the words out loud.

Phil nodded, a warm smile on his face at the look of determination on Natasha's.

"Excellent," he said, pulling out another sheet of paper from the file. Natasha could read the title upside down: Training Schedule. "Clint will give you your physical training. That'll cover how to fight and how to use weapons. I will be in charge of your espionage training. That'll cover spying, of course, but also how to deal with civilians and how to minimise collateral damage. You'll spend Monday to Friday in training, with weekends off. You'll alternate each week between training with Clint and training with me. Does that sound OK?"

Natasha nodded immediately. It was a relief to actually have a proper schedule to follow again. For all that she hated her time at the Red Room Academy and the KGB, she did miss the sense of routine that had come with it.

"That sounds great," she said.

Phil scribbled something down on the sheet of paper with a smile.

"You'll probably already know much of what we're going to teach you, but it's a procedure we have to follow," he said, sounding a little apologetic. "Once Clint and I are satisfied that you've reached a high enough level of competency, you'll undergo a thorough assessment."

"The Interview," said Clint, rocking back in his chair and doing quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

Phil nodded.

"'The Interview', as agents and recruits like to call it, is an assessment that includes physical, written and verbal tests," Phil explained. "The physical part of the test covers the fighting and weapons skills that you'll be practicing with Clint. The written test will cover the espionage and strategic planning skills you'll learn with me. The verbal test takes place within a lie detector. The verbal part of the test will probe your personality and how suitable you are as a person to join SHIELD."

Beside her, Clint shifted uncomfortably.

"Natasha's interview is going to be  _intense_ ," muttered Clint.

Phil nodded in agreement, his face open and honest as he gazed steadily at Natasha.

"I think in your case they're going to be particularly brutal in their questioning," said Phil. "There are many people within SHIELD who believe you're still working for the KGB, and that you've been sent here to spy on us."

Natasha felt a rush of anger tinged with shame. She clenched her hands to stop them from shaking.

"I'm not," she protested.

Phil held up his hands placatingly.

"I believe you," he said earnestly. "But there are many who don't, Director Fury included. The lie detector will reveal beyond doubt what your true intentions are and if you're hiding anything from us."

Natasha sat silently, the heavy weight of people's prejudices and expectations settling on her shoulders. Everyone thought she was a monster. They were justified to think that, she supposed. She had been. But she did not want to be. She wanted her future to be different from her past. She wanted to change, to atone, to become more than the cold-hearted killer she had been raised to be.

"I just want you to be prepared," Phil said gently. "The Interview is going to be intense. It'll be intrusive. But if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear."

Natasha nodded stiffly.

"I understand," she said. "I don't blame people for thinking the worst of me."

She looked forward to proving them all wrong.

 

* * *

 

Her first training session was a week later.

She and Phil were alone in a large, airy classroom, Natasha sitting down as Phil fiddled with a television, trying to get it to work.

"I swear, if Fitz has tried to build an AI into the TV again, I'm going to replace him with one of those monkeys he's always going on about..." he muttered, scrabbling around with the wires as he tried desperately to get the television to work.

Natasha vaguely wondered who Fitz was, why he talked about monkeys and why he was the number one suspect for needlessly fiddling around with electronics. She supposed he must be another agent, but people came and went so frequently that she did not know any of their names.

Watching Phil, she suddenly caught sight of a trailing cable and had to work hard to swallow down a laugh. She settled for grinning instead as she cleared her throat.

"Phil," she said. "I don't think it's plugged in at the wall."

Phil froze, looking at the cable that was supposed to be plugged in to the wall but most definitely was not. He groaned as he rubbed his face with his hand, looking simultaneously tired and mortified.

"I was working late last night," he said, looking flustered. "Didn't get much sleep. And if you knew Fitz, you'd understand why I thought he'd be involved, that time with the toaster..."

He trailed off as he plugged the television into the wall, his face lighting up as it came to life with a beep.

"OK," he smiled, brushing his hands as he straightened back up. "So for our first session, I thought I'd assess your observational and strategic skills."

Natasha nodded, sitting up a little straighter.

It was strange, how different this classroom felt to the Red Room Academy, even though she suspected she would be covering much of the same information. While the Red Room Academy had felt oppressive and generated an atmosphere of fear, sitting in this classroom with Phil was a much more relaxed, comfortable affair. Perhaps it was the way Phil treated her – with respect, like an equal. Perhaps it was simply because she knew she was allowed to walk out and leave if she wanted to. At the Red Room Academy, none of the girls had such a luxury.

Phil inserted a disk into the television.

"I want you to watch this 15-minute video," he said. "Your job is to work out who the spy is and who they're spying on."

Natasha nodded, leaning forward as Phil pressed the play button. A short disclaimer appeared on the screen, explaining that everyone involved was an actor and that the video was for training purposes, and then the video itself began.

The scene showed a busy cafe, with two doors and ten different tables. All the tables were occupied, and there was a line of people standing in the queue, as well as a group loitering outside.

Natasha watched carefully as the queue moved along and the people at the tables chatted amongst themselves. There was a little girl with her parents who was running between the tables, a group of young men who were casting furtive glances at an attractive brunette in a short skirt, a man in an overcoat and dark glasses who was very obviously a decoy.

Natasha concentrated hard, filtering out all the noise and distractions and after around ten minutes, she saw it. There did not seem to be any kind of meaningful pattern in the behaviour of any of the patrons, except one.

An old man was sat in a brown coat near the counter. Natasha did not notice it at first, but after a while it became apparent that his seemingly random shifts in posture were not random at all.

"The man in the brown coat," she said sharply. "He keeps repositioning himself so that he has a clear view of the till. I don't think he's spying on a person at all. I think he wants to see the code that opens the till. Perhaps he's a thief."

Phil nodded, impressed, as he stopped and ejected the disk.

"Still keeping sharp, I see," he said. "Very good."

Natasha smiled, feeling a rush of pride at having completed the task with time to spare. By the look on Phil's face, he had not expected her to work it out so quickly.

"OK, time for something different," he said, pulling out a seat and sitting across from Natasha, smiling. "Let's talk strategy. Let's imagine that you're doing a mid-to-long-term mission, and you have to go into deep cover, blend in. How would you do that?"

Natasha was silent for a couple of minutes as she considered her answer. She had never actually done a long-term mission that had required her to build up a complex cover story. She had specialised in fast and dirty jobs – an assassination here, a theft there. The Ivanov job had been the only one where there had been a long-term plan, and that had ended on the first night when she had snapped the pervert's neck.

"I suppose in a long-term mission, the most important thing would be to build up close inter-personal relationships," she said slowly. "I'd become friends with the people I was spying on, make them trust me."

Phil nodded.

"Yes," he said.

His eyes flicked to the side as he spoke, focusing on a spot behind her.

Natasha turned around in her chair to see a well-built black man standing in the doorway. He was wearing a long, black coat and had an eyepatch covering his left eye. He stared hard at Natasha for a moment, a glare tugging at his eyebrows, before he turned on his heel wordlessly and walked away.

For some reason, the man caused Natasha to shiver in apprehension. The way he had looked at her had been almost as if he were trying to x-ray her, as if he could peer into her soul and look at her darkest secrets.

"That was Nick Fury, the Director of SHIELD," Phil explained quietly.

Natasha swallowed as she tried to regain her composure. The feeling of being x-rayed by Director Fury reminded her far too much of Madame B and her penetrating gaze.

"Director Fury thinks I'm faking this, doesn't he?" she said. "He thinks I'm working for the KGB and that I'm just making friends and getting people to trust me as part of a cover story."

Phil was silent for a moment, his hesitation speaking volumes.

When he finally did speak, he did not deny it, confirming her suspicions.

"You'll be able to prove yourself and your true loyalties in The Interview," he said. "The lie detector was built by the best; Fitz and the rest of the tech crew spent over a year working on it. No one can outsmart that machine."

Natasha nodded, feeling a little uneasy.

She wondered what sort of questions they would ask her, if she would have to reveal every shameful detail of her past: St. Anastasia's Maternity Hospital, Valentina Drakova, Katerina, James.

She was not sure if she was ready for someone to peel back her skin and take a good, long look at the inner workings of her mind.

After all, they would not like what they saw.

 

* * *

 

Three months later, Laura's six-month baby bump was now distinctly noticeable.

Natasha and Clint had taken turns in talking to the little bump at breakfast time, gently laying their hands on Laura's belly whenever the baby had kicked.

The first time Natasha had felt it kick, she had been rendered speechless. To think that there was a little human growing inside of Laura was, to Natasha, simply amazing.

She had never experienced falling in love, but she imagined it must be something like what she had felt when she had first felt that tiny movement within Laura. It was a desire to protect, to cherish, to adore.

That had been that morning.

Presently, however, Natasha and Clint were far removed from singing to baby bumps at breakfast. Clint's fist missed her face by inches.

Natasha slid deftly underneath him, avoiding his punch whilst simultaneously ducking behind him and wrapping her arms around his torso, trying to get purchase on his SHIELD-issue t-shirt.

Today, they were doing hand-to-hand combat training. They were evenly-matched, which made their spars interesting from a technical standpoint as well as simply entertaining to watch. Occasionally, other SHIELD agents or potential new recruits would come to watch them training, until Clint inevitably got fed up of the audience and shooed them away.

Clint grunted as he twisted his torso vigorously in an attempt to dislodge her from his back. When this proved to be unsuccessful, he dropped to the ground, rolling and trying to pin her to the mat under his weight instead. Natasha squirmed at the new position, thrashing to get a good grip on the mat with her feet, eventually managing to heave them over so that she had Clint pinned under her.

She started counting down from ten out loud, letting Clint know how many seconds he had left to escape her hold before he ran out of time and lost the match.

"Five... four... three..."

He surged upwards with a sudden burst of strength. Natasha reacted reflexively, her Red Room Academy training kicking in before she could stop herself.

She slammed her fist down into Clint's groin.

Her own eyes widened in horror just as Clint's widened in pain in shock, and there was a moment of stunned silence before Clint suddenly let forth a slew of profanities, some of which Natasha was not even familiar with.

"Time out, time out," he wheezed, once the storm of swear words had petered out. His voice sounded higher than usual and there was a definite gingerness to his movements when he sat up.

"I'm sorry," Natasha said sheepishly, feeling a stab of guilt at the way in which Clint's eyes watered as he cupped his groin. "But hey, at least now you have an excuse to eat cookies all day when we get home."

Clint huffed out a small laugh, jabbing a finger in Natasha's direction.

"I'm expecting a whole batch of cookies from you, Miss Romanoff," he grouched. "With extra chocolate chips."

Natasha smiled, relief washing through her that Clint was not angry with her for her below-the-belt attack.

"Of course, Agent Badass," she said softly.

Clint's lips quirked up into a smile at Natasha's comment and, with her help, he managed to stagger upright to his feet.

"I think you're ready for the physical part of The Interview," he said. "How's the espionage training going with Phil?"

Natasha picked up her water bottle and took a long sip before answering, feeling a rush of relief as the cool liquid slid down her dry throat.

"It's going good," she said. "I knew most of it already. The only new things I had to learn were how to minimise collateral damage and how to work with civilians. Phil said last week that he thought I was ready for my assessment."

Clint nodded as he hobbled over to a chair and took a long drink from his water bottle.

"Would you like to be put forward for The Interview?" he asked, his blue eyes wide and serious. "If you feel ready, I'll talk to Phil and we should be able to set it up in the next few weeks."

Natasha's gaze was drawn to the SHIELD insignia on Clint's sleeve. It felt right, to be here, to be part of something larger. This could be how she could right the wrongs she had done in her life.

When she replied, there was no hesitation, and no reservations.

"I'm ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHIL COULSON: Who here loves Phil? :) If the answer is YOU, then you're in luck; he will feature quite prominently in the rest of this story!
> 
> LEO FITZ: Agents of SHIELD fans, I hope you enjoyed Fitz's little mention in this chapter! I love him, his genius brain and his cute obsession with monkeys <3
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "The Interview" and will be about, you guessed it, The Interview. It will be an exciting one! A few of you have questioned the ease with which the KGB released Natasha from her contract - the next chapter will address this point... Also, two new characters will be introduced: Maria Hill and Brock Rumlow.


	22. The Interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, there is [ chapter art on my Tumblr](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/158546130991/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)!

2008 – Aged 24

 

* * *

 

The first part of The Interview was the written exam.

Natasha was sat in one of the classrooms where she and Phil had trained, her head bent down over the paper as she carefully read the questions. She was not nervous. Madame B had trained her to cope under extreme pressure; an exam was not going to send her into a freak out.

At the front of the classroom, a large clock showed the time. Two minutes down, 1 hour 58 minutes remaining. Phil and Director Fury himself were sat at the front of the class, on either side of the clock, invigilating her exam. When Natasha glanced up to look at the time, Phil gave her an encouraging smile.

Natasha flashed him a quick smile in return before looking back down to her paper. The paper was split into two halves: four long questions about strategy, and then a series of multiple choice psychometric questions.

**SHIELD Level 1 Operative Entrance Examination – April 2008.**

**PART A: ESPIONAGE AND STRATEGIC PLANNING**

_Please answer all four (4) questions._

Question 1: You are sent to retrieve a document from a safe inside a locked room. The room is in the basement of a heavily fortified building, with CCTV in all the corridors and metal detectors at all the entrances. You are not permitted to have any weapons, electronics or metal objects on your person. How do you retrieve the document from the safe?

Question 2: You and a colleague come under attack by an enemy agent in a crowded public space. How should you and your colleague react to de-escalate the situation with as few civilian casualties as possible?

Question 3: You are sent on a deep-cover mission that requires you to spend a protracted period of time living under an assumed identity. How do you approach this?

Question 4: Five enemy agents kidnap twenty hostages. If the enemy agents become aware of your presence, they will kill the hostages. How do you save the hostages?

**PART B: PSYCHOMETRIC SELF-EVALUATION (MYERS-BRIGGS TYPE INDICATOR)**

_Please select a number from 1 to 7 to indicate how strongly you agree or disagree with each statement, where 1 indicates that you strongly agree and 7 indicates that you strongly disagree._

You find it difficult to introduce yourself to other people.

You often get so lost in your thoughts that you ignore or forget your surroundings.

You try to respond to your emails as soon as possible and cannot stand a messy inbox.

You find it easy to stay relaxed and focused even when there is some pressure.

You do not usually initiate conversations.

You rarely do something just out of sheer curiosity.

_Continued overleaf..._

She smiled as she considered the first question. It reminded her a lot of the mission in Sao Paulo, where she had been sent to retrieve a document from Ernesto Silva's compound. It also had elements of the Paris mission, where she had had to break into the French government building to plant the infected USB stick into their servers.

She put her pen to the paper and began to write.

_Assuming I had enough time to prepare, I would observe staff attire and make an exact replica of their uniform. A security guard's uniform would be preferable, as this would allow me unimpeded access to secure parts of the building where other staff may not be authorised to enter. Most people only pay attention to the uniform, not the person wearing it, especially in a corporate or emergency situation._

_Entering the building would presumably need some kind of ID card, therefore I would have to either create a fake ID card or steal one from an employee._

_Once inside, I would go to the CCTV central hub and manually disable the cameras (or at least stop them from recording). Any existing staff in the CCTV central hub would be non-lethally dealt with._

_Getting into the locked room and the safe would require two stiff objects. As metal is not allowed, I would use two plastic hair pins._

Natasha paused. She wondered if she had to explain how to pick a lock. She glanced up at the clock. She still had plenty of time, so she decided that she might as well do so. The exam was an opportunity for her to show off her skills and knowledge, after all.

She thought back to when she had first learnt how to pick locks. She remembered how she had gone to James' house to break in, only to be caught by him and taken inside for cookies and milk and daffodils.

Her hand clenched painfully around her pen as her throat swelled with emotion. She wondered what James would think of her now, if he would be proud of her. An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach, a mixture of guilt and shame, because James was gone and it was entirely her fault.

She tried to push the intrusive thoughts away and continued writing, recalling Madame B's explanation of how to pick locks and writing it out word for word.

By the time the two hours were up, she had completely filled the answer book with small, cramped writing.

Most of what she had written had come from what she had learnt at the Red Room Academy.

And for some reason, even though she was sure she had passed with flying colours, that realisation made her feel like shit.

 

* * *

 

The physical test was split into two halves: a weapons test and a hand-to-hand combat assessment.

Natasha was led out of the classroom where she had completed her written exam and taken straight to the shooting range by Phil and Director Fury. They did not speak en route, as exam conditions were still officially in place.

When they finally arrived at the shooting range, Natasha had to hold back an impressed whistle. She had not been permitted to use the shooting range before, as it usually contained other recruits and Director Fury was not willing to risk their safety by allowing Natasha's presence. It was only now, with the entire range cleared as per exam conditions, that Natasha was finally allowed to enter the room.

It was large and impressively equipped. There were around 200 human-shaped targets spread around the room. Natasha could see thin cords running from the targets to the ceiling, which suggested that they could be moved around to simulate a moving target.

"The targets with red dots in the middle represent enemy combatants," said Director Fury, his expression cold and hard as he addressed her. "The targets with the blue dots in the middle represent civilians. Your task is to shoot as many of the 'enemies' as you can within two minutes, whilst leaving the 'civilians' unharmed. Do you understand?"

_Do you understand, girls?_

Natasha swallowed back thickly against the sudden wave of panic elicited by Director Fury's words. For a moment, she was transported back to the Red Room Academy, watching Madame B's lips as she uttered those exact same words time and time again. Icy terror flooded through her as the memory sharpened and suddenly Madame B was standing in front of her, her head cocked to the side, those too-familiar blue eyes cold and those perfect lips twisted in a cruel smile.

_You are one of the best students the Red Room Academy has ever had._

"Natasha?"

Phil's concerned voice snapped her back to reality with a jolt. Phil was peering at her closely, his face filled with worry as he took in her sudden clamminess and haunted expression.

"I understand," she gasped out.

Director Fury handed her a gun, glaring at her whilst he showed her that he had his own gun strapped to his hip. The implication was clear: try anything remotely suspicious, and I will shoot you on the spot.

Natasha took the gun, fighting to stop her hands from shaking. She glanced surreptitiously around the room, her heart racing wildly as she checked that Madame B was not actually in the room. She was not, of course. Her old teacher was probably still at the Red Room Academy, brainwashing and torturing the next generation of deadly little girls.

"You will have two minutes from when the alarm sounds," said Phil, pointing to a speaker system that Natasha had not noticed before. "You are allowed to move anywhere within the shooting range, but you're not allow to leave the range. The whole thing will be recorded so that we can properly review it later. A second alarm will indicate when your two minutes are up. Director Fury and I will be watching from behind a bulletproof screen, so if you need to stop for any reason during the exam, just give us a wave. Does that all make sense?"

For some reason, Natasha found herself extremely grateful that Phil had not used the phrase  _'do you understand?'_

Where this sudden anxiety was coming from, she had no idea.

Perhaps if she had read some of the mental health books that Laura had discreetly left lying around the farmhouse, she would have understood that stress could exacerbate the symptoms of PTSD, but as it was she had not, and so she was clueless.

"Yes, sir," she replied. "That makes sense."

At that, the two men turned and made their way into a special adjoining room that allowed them to view everything that happened from behind a bulletproof screen.

Natasha watched them go, feeling a little uneasy but viciously stamping out the emotion. This was not a time to indulge emotion. If she was to pass this test, she had to focus.

In a way, this would be more difficult than the shooting tests she had completed at the Red Room Academy. At the Red Room Academy, the objective had simply been to shoot as accurately as possible at whatever target was placed in front of her: a board, a melon, a human forehead. At SHIELD, she was not only expected to shoot just as accurately, but she also had to have a razor-sharp awareness of when  _not_ to shoot, as well. SHIELD cared about civilian lives. SHIELD operated with the aim of minimising collateral damage. This, Natasha felt, would be her challenge.

"Ten seconds until the test begins," said Phil's voice, booming out of the speakers in the ceiling. "Five... Four... Three... Two... One..."

As soon as the klaxon blared, the target boards began moving around the range, tugged along by the wires attached to the ceiling, just as Natasha had suspected.

There were approximately equal numbers of red "enemy" and blue "civilian" boards, moving quickly and criss-crossing in front of one another with frightening regularity, making the task extremely difficult for the average recruit.

It was lucky for Natasha that she was not average.

She immediately ran forward and began ducking and weaving between the boards, keeping her gun up at all times and firing the moment she got an unimpeded view of a red target.

She found herself relaxing into her role, her movements almost dance-like as she moved between the boards, her mind focused entirely on the colours on the boards and her trigger finger reacting perfectly.

Red.

Blue.

Blue.

Red.

Blue.

Red.

Red.

Red.

As she fired off three shots in quick succession, she heard a whirring noise behind her and dropped to the ground to avoid a target that immediately filled the space she had been standing just moments before. Her finger tightened around the trigger instinctively, her muscles pulling the mechanism back on instinct.

Blue.

Civilian.

Her eyes widened in shock as she stared at the colour, too late, her traitorous finger already pulling back the trigger. Without thinking, she kicked at the board, sending it crashing away from her as she simultaneously twisted back and to the side, her gun discharging harmlessly into the ceiling.

She scrambled to her feet to look at the target. It was swinging by the cords that attached it to the ceiling. If it were a person, they would be badly winded from being kicked in the chest, perhaps suffering a couple of broken ribs if they were unlucky, but they would be alive.

With a surge of something fierce in her chest, Natasha went back to the task with renewed vigour, staring hard at each colour for the few fractions of a second it took her to view each target.

By the time the klaxon blared to indicate her two minutes were up, 76 of the 100 red targets had holes in their centres.

Not a single blue target had been shot.

 

* * *

 

The second part of her physical exam was a hand-to-hand combat assessment.

As Phil and Director Fury escorted her to the gym where the exam was to take place, Natasha wondered who she would be fighting against. Neither Phil nor Director Fury were dressed for a sparring match, and Clint was at home with the family, having taken the day off so that he could, in his words, get the house ready for a "wild celebratory party".

Natasha was not sure how wild a party they could have with a two-year-old child and a heavily pregnant woman making up half the attendees, but Clint had simply winked and whispered again "wild".

As they entered the gym, Natasha's eyes fell on two unfamiliar agents who were chatting and stretching together in the middle of the room. They were dressed in black gym clothes with the SHIELD insignia sewn into the arms of their t-shirts. They fell silent when Natasha, Phil and Director Fury entered the room and walked over to them.

"Natasha, this is Agent Maria Hill," said Phil, smiling. "And this is Agent Brock Rumlow."

Natasha shook their hands, giving them a polite smile.

Maria smiled back at her warmly as she shook Natasha's hand. Maria was slim, with pale skin, dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. She had a calm, strong aura about her, radiating a kind of quiet authority that instilled a sense of respect in Natasha. Her smile was friendly; it was the type of genuine smile that reached her eyes, and it helped to put Natasha at ease.

Brock was darker, with black hair, brown eyes and tanned skin. He had a muscular build and a few scars that suggested he had got into a few bad scrapes in the past. He looked at her intently as he shook her hand, his eyes glimmering and his smile tight-lipped. He gave off a hyper-masculine, almost aggressive vibe. His brown eyes did not hold any of Maria's warmth.

"Nice to meet you," said Natasha, addressing them both.

"You too," replied Maria, giving her an encouraging smile.

Director Fury cleared his throat to stop the exchange of niceties.

"For this part of your assessment, you will engage in a sparring match against Agents Hill and Rumlow," said Director Fury. "The match will be recorded and your technique will be assessed afterwards. It'll last exactly 5 minutes and the objective is to get your opponent on the ground as many times as possible during that time. No weapons, no broken bones and no head blows. If I think things are getting too rough, I'll call out 'stop' and you're to stop immediately. Understand?"

Natasha nodded, as did Maria and Brock.

Giving a satisfied grunt, Director Fury took a few steps back.

"Your five minutes starts now."

Natasha startled, not expecting the fight to start so immediately, but her Red Room Academy training kicked in and she ducked down low to dodge Brock's fist that had flown out as soon as Director Fury had spoken.

She span around on her heels, blocking a kick from Maria and grabbing hold of her leg to topple her over whilst she was off balance. Maria hit the soft gym mat with a grunt and, out of the corner of her eye, Natasha saw Phil marking down a tally on a piece of paper.

Without waiting for Maria to get back up, Natasha switched her attention to Brock, springing out of the way of another punch and jumping onto his back, wrapping her arms and legs around him, trying to unbalance him with a few hard jerks of her body. Brock did not budge, instead grabbing hold of her arms and spinning around.

Natasha clung on tight, closing her eyes to try to avoid the nauseating dizziness that Brock was no doubt aiming for. She re-opened her eyes as soon as she felt Brock stop spinning and planted her feet back on solid ground. She lurched to the side, more affected by the spinning than she had realised, and Brock grabbed her easily by the waist, pulling her down and pressing her against the gym floor for a long second.

Natasha huffed with annoyance as she shot back up to her feet, angry that she had allowed herself to concede a point. The satisfied smirk on Brock's face only made her angrier. There was something more than professional competitiveness in his eyes, something nastier and more primal that simultaneously made Natasha's blood boil with rage and run cold.

She remembered how the punch to Clint's groin had rendered him almost immobile for about 10 minutes when they had sparred a fortnight before, and let out a grunt as she swung her knee upwards as hard as possible into Brock's crotch.

A spurt of satisfaction shot through her as she watched Brock drop to the floor with a shout, his hands shooting to his crotch as his eyes watered in agony.

"Bitch!"

"Agent Rumlow," snapped Phil.

Natasha turned her back on Brock as she listened to Phil admonishing him for his outburst, turning her attention back to Maria, who was looking at her with an almost impressed expression on her face. Perhaps she imagined it, though, because a second later Maria's face smoothed over back into one of calm professionalism.

Natasha aimed a kick at Maria's legs, trying to knock them out from under her, but Maria was too quick for her, jumping to avoid her kick and quickly regaining her balance. Natasha darted forward, grabbing her by the arms and putting her foot behind Maria's ankle, pushing her firmly backwards.

As Maria hit the floor, Natasha remembered the countless times she and Elena had practiced the same move in their dormitory. They had been so desperate to get it right and impress Madame B.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brock crawling towards her, still in agony from the kick to his crotch, but she easily skipped out of his reach, rushing at Maria once more.

The five minutes passed by in a blur of kicks, punches, pushes and tackles.

By the end of it, Natasha was pleasantly sore, the adrenaline and endorphins triggered by fighting producing a natural, if temporary, anaesthetic against the pain.

 

* * *

 

The final part of The Interview was the verbal interrogation.

She was led to the room by Phil and Director Fury, a feeling of foreboding growing in her stomach with every step; Clint and Phil had both warned her that they expected her interview to be intense, such was the strength of the suspicion held against her.

She entered the room and swallowed nervously when she saw its layout. When Phil had told her that she would be subjected to a lie detector, she had expected a simple electrode to be attached to her finger. The reality, however, was much more intimidating.

A sturdy black chair sat in the middle of the room, with thick steel cuffs attached to the armrests. The headrest was surrounded by a metal semi-circle with wires protruding and running around the back, clearly designed to measure brain activity. A camera was placed directly in front of the chair, at a distance of around one metre.

"Galvanic skin response, oxygen consumption, microexpressions, biofeedback, brainwaves, pupil dilation, voice biometrics," said Director Fury. "This lie detector measures 96 variables. If you lie, we'll know. If you even  _think_ about lying, we'll know. Are we clear?"

His was glaring at her hard, not even bothering to hide the suspicion that was written all over his face.

Natasha nodded, trying not to let her fear show.

"Director Fury will be the one questioning you," explained Phil. "I'm here to observe and act as a witness."

Natasha nodded again, following Phil when he led her towards the large black chair.

"Sit, please," he said. "Put your head back against the headrest and place your arms on the armrests."

Natasha obeyed, settling down in the black leather of the chair, rolling her shoulders to relieve some of the tension that had been building up in them. She leaned back so that the back of her head pressed against the headrest. When she placed her arms on the armrests, Phil snapped the metal cuffs around her wrists, tightening them so that they were firmly secured and had good contact against her skin.

Natasha shifted uneasily. These did not look like cuffs she could break out of. The thought sent jitters shooting down her spine; she did not like the idea of being trapped.

Phil pulled out a wire from underneath the chair and snaked it up to clip it onto the end of Natasha's right index finger.

Straightening up, he walked out of her field of vision and flicked a few switches on the back of the chair. Natasha could hear it whirring quietly to life, the electronics and scientific measuring equipment gearing up. She gripped the edges of the armrests tightly.

Phil reappeared in her line of sight and gave her a small smile as he patted her on the arm lightly.

"Everything's going to be fine," said Phil. "Just relax and answer everything honestly. We'll celebrate afterwards."

_We'll celebrate after the graduation ceremony._

For a moment, Phil's kind blue eyes warped into Madame B's much colder ones. She felt herself shaking, swallowing convulsively as she fought against the onslaught of memories that threatened to overwhelm her.

_The ceremony is necessary for you to take your place in the world._

_I have no place in the world._

No. This was supposed to be a fresh start. She would not allow Madame B to ruin her life  _again_.

"SHIELD operative level 1 assessment," said Director Fury, speaking into a microphone that was recording the proceedings. "The applicant is Miss Natasha Romanoff."

Natasha's eyes snapped forward to where Director Fury and Phil were stood several metres in front of her, their heads inclined downwards as they watched a computer monitor that was displaying her biometric information.

"Let's start off easy, to get a baseline reading," said Director Fury. "What is your name?"

Natasha swallowed nervously. She licked her lips. Her throat was far too dry.

"My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova," she said, trying to enunciate slowly and clearly. "I also go by the Westernised version of my name, Natasha Romanoff."

She waited for a few seconds, as the two men glanced between her and the computer monitor in front of them. She wondered what it said on the screen, what the 96 variables that the lie detector measured actually were. She wondered what her baseline was.

Apparently satisfied by what he was seeing on the screen, Director Fury moved on to the next question.

"What is your date of birth?"

Natasha squirmed a little in her seat.

"I don't know. We didn't have birthdays at the Red Room Academy," she said, ignoring the look of surprise and pity that appeared on Phil's face. "All I know is that I was born in 1984, so I'm probably 24 years old."

If Director Fury felt any emotion at her words, he did not show it, simply ploughing on to the next question in a tone of detachment.

"Do you have any family?"

Natasha shook her head, before realising that they probably wanted her to give verbal answers so that the machine could properly analyse her response.

"No," she said, before hesitating slightly. "No biological family, anyway. I guess I consider the Bartons to be my family now. And when I was young, I had two friends who I considered family, Elena and James."

Director Fury looked up sharply, his nostrils flaring as he stared at her with a look of intense suspicion.

"Are Elena and James KGB spies?" he demanded. "Are you still in touch with them?"

A lump formed in Natasha's throat as she shook her head again.

"They're dead," she said, trying and failing to stop her voice from wavering.

If she were standing, she felt sure her knees would be shaking. She silently begged to whatever deity was listening that Director Fury would not ask how they had died. She would never stop being ashamed of how she had ended James' life. She was not strong enough to face that truth yet, least of all in front of an audience.

"How did they die?"

Natasha felt her eyes slip closed as a tear trickled down her cheek.

_Up on your toes, turn half way, arms up, a step to the side whilst touching your toes to your knee, repeat, twirl around, lunge down, jump back up, arms up, eight tiny steps backwards on tiptoes, touch toes to knees twice more, turn, arms down, stop moving, arms up, spin twice._

Natasha shivered. It was not working. No matter how much she performed the ballet routine in her head, she could not turn herself to marble. She could not protect her mind. She could not give herself that sweet emotional anaesthetic that came with not having to feel.

"Elena was killed by another girl in a death spar," she said, her hands shaking as she finally opened her eyes at look, wild-eyed, at the two men in front of her. "James... I killed James. It was my last day at the Red Room Academy, and I killed him."

A broken moan escaped her lips against her will. She breathed deep, trying to gain some control over her body. Tears slid down her cheeks more rapidly as her mind refused to turn to marble, forcing her to experience every painful, razor-sharp emotion.

She saw James' large brown eyes in her mind, staring at her in barely concealed terror as she raised her arm and pointed the gun at his forehead.

_Bullseye!_

"What did you do as a Red Room Academy student and KGB agent?" asked Director Fury, apparently unmoved by her tears.

He reminded her a little of Madame B.

"I killed," she said quietly.

Director Fury crossed his arms, his eyebrows raised.

"And?" he pressed.

Natasha took a deep breath.

"I stole."

"And?"

"I lied."

" _And?_ "

Natasha's face crumpled as she looked away, unable to look at the expression of disgust on Director Fury's face any longer.

"I... I betrayed my friend," she whispered. "James was my friend."

Curly white hair. Big brown eyes. A smile that shone like sunshine on a hot summer's day. James' face haunted her. For weeks after graduating, she had seen him in her dreams. Even now, she still dreamed of him. He had never left her. She could not let him go.

"How many people have you killed?" asked Director Fury.

There was an edge to his voice, a cold anger that made him suddenly all the more intimidating, and with a rush of horror, Natasha remembered that on one of her very first missions she had killed an American agent. She had not known the organisation he had worked for, but judging by the look of rage in Director Fury's eyes, she was willing to bet it was SHIELD.

"I don't know," she said, feeling her face heat up with a stab of shame. "I think between 100 and 200."

She saw Phil flinch before he could stop himself, and it was this, more than Director Fury's overtly hostile glare, that made Natasha feel a rush of self-loathing so powerful that for the first time in her life she wanted to actually, physically hurt herself.

"What are you doing here?" said Director Fury.

_Good question._

"I want to be a SHIELD agent," she said, suddenly feeling unsure, her confidence falling away as memories of everything she had done as a Red Room Academy student and KGB agent rushed to the forefront of her mind.

"Why?" asked Director Fury, his eyes narrowed with palpable distrust.

Natasha blinked away her tears, angry at herself for getting so upset. This was not her. She was strong. She was like marble.

"I want to use my skills for good," she said, shocked at how weak and hollow her words sounded even to her own ears. Just this morning, she had said those words confidently to herself in the mirror. Now, they seemed childish and inadequate. "I want to make the world a safer place."

Director Fury immediately shook his head.

"I don't believe you," he said.

Natasha pulled against the cuffs restraining her to the chair, feeling increasingly agitated in the face of Director Fury's unflinching, seemingly insurmountable suspicion.

"It's true," she insisted, even as she began to question it herself. "I want to atone. I've killed good people. I want to redress the balance. I want to  _save_ good people now. If I'm ever to kill again, I want it to be as a last resort and only against criminals or terrorists – people who deserve it."

Director Fury did not look any more convinced. Natasha wondered what the machine's readings were saying about her truthfulness. Fear threatened to overwhelm her at the thought that it might be malfunctioning.

"Are you still working for the KGB?" asked Director Fury, his tone tense, as if he were finally getting to the point that he had been guiding her towards since she had first stepped foot in the room.

"No," Natasha said firmly.

Phil and Director Fury both inclined their heads to stare at the computer monitor displaying the data being relayed by the lie detector. After around five seconds of silence from them both, Natasha twitched nervously.

"I'm not working for the KGB," she insisted.

Why were they staring at the screen so intently? Why were they not speaking? What if the machine was broken?

She started to panic, her heart rate increasing as she thought about the likelihood of SHIELD's most prized piece of tech malfunctioning whilst she was strapped into it.

To her horror, she then started panicking about the fact she was panicking, her anxiety creating a vicious feedback loop that sent her heart rate skyrocketing and her body breaking out into a sweat.

"Natasha,  _relax_ ," said Phil, speaking for the first time since Natasha's interview had begun. "Just stay calm and answer the questions truthfully. Stop stressing."

Before Natasha could take the opportunity to ground herself using Phil's calm, gentle voice, Director Fury interrupted, sending her stress levels spiking once more.

"When were you last in contact with the KGB?" he asked bluntly.

Natasha took a moment to close her eyes and try to regain control over her breathing before replying.

"The day I left Russia with Agent Barton to come to the US," she said.

"And tell me  _why_ the KGB let you go," said Director Fury. "According to your story, they raised you since you were a baby. They made you into a perfect weapon. Why the hell would they give up an agent like that? What did they say to you the day you claim they let you go?"

Natasha flinched with anger.

"I'm not  _claiming_ anything. It's not a story; it's the truth!" she snapped, before closing her eyes, her heart clenching painfully as she remembered exactly what Nikolai Patrushev had told her. "They... they said that I would go back to them. They said that I was foolish to ever think I could use my skills for good or be a free woman. They said I would never be anything more than the killer they'd made me to be."

There was complete silence in the room following her revelation. She could see the pain in Phil's eyes from where she sat, his blue eyes filled with a mixture of horror and sadness. She turned her face away, unable to look at him. She did not deserve his sadness or sympathy.

"Were they right?" asked Director Fury.

Phil looked up at his superior officer sharply, his eyes wide with shock.

"That's enough," said Phil.

"Answer the question," said Director Fury, cutting Phil off with a hard glare. "Were they right? Are you anything more than a soulless KGB killer?

Natasha stayed silent, her cheeks prickling with tears and a flush of humiliation.

She had never felt so ashamed in all her life. She was stupid for ever coming to the US, for ever leaving Russia, for ever believing she could escape the destiny that the KGB had meticulously laid out for her since she was three years old.

Because she understood now. Nikolai Patrushev was right. She was simply the killer the KGB had made her to be. She would never be more. She had slaughtered mothers and babies, tortured innocent little girls – there was no going back from there, no redemption, no atonement, no way to cancel out that much red.

Hot, angry tears spilled down her cheeks. She had wasted so many people's time – Clint's, Laura's, Phil's, and most of all her own. She was angry with herself for ever allowing herself to believe that she could be free. It was a pipe dream, a child's fantasy. She should have grown out of such silly little games.

She was about to open her mouth to answer Director Fury's question when Phil interrupted.

"You don't have to answer that," he said shortly, glaring at Director Fury. "It's not a necessary part of the interview."

There was a tense moment where Natasha thought Director Fury might shout at Phil, or worse, but after a heated couple of seconds, Director Fury seemed to back down, sucking in his lips as he turned back to Natasha.

"Final question," he said. "Describe yourself in one word."

Natasha could not help it – she gasped. She was not a religious or superstitious person, but it seemed right now that fate was playing a cruel game. It was the same question that Madame B had asked her at the beginning of her final year exams at the Red Room Academy.

It was almost poetic, as if things had come full circle. Which, in a way, they had.

She closed her eyes, burying the misery and pain deep within herself, as the answer slipped from her lips.

"Fearless."

Her voice was perfectly steady. It was strange, how composed she was, as she hammered in the last nail into the coffin that had once contained her aspirations to be free.

Because she had given the same answer as she had all those years ago. Because nothing had changed. She had not changed. She was every bit the amoral KGB-raised killer now as she had been then, as she ever had been, as she ever would be.

Nikolai Patrushev and Director Fury were right: she would never be more.

She was only partially aware of Phil unhooking her from the lie detector, releasing the restrains and removing the clip from her right index finger.

"Go back to Clint's house," said Phil, giving her a smile that she could not bring herself to return. "There's a Quinjet at the other end of the compound ready to take you. We'll have the results of The Interview in a few hours, so by this evening you'll know whether you've been accepted into the SHIELD family or not."

And bless his heart, Phil was looking so hopeful and genuine that Natasha almost wanted to cry.

She did not, of course.

She remained straight-faced and silent.

But on the inside, she was screaming.

 

* * *

 

She never boarded the Quinjet.

As soon as she was unstrapped from the lie detector and told she could leave, she made her way through the base alone, exiting through one of the lesser used wings that was typically only used for deliveries.

After slipping unnoticed through the delivery bay door, she jogged down the tarmac for two miles until it re-joined the civilian road network, quickly flagging down a passing car and hitchhiking her way to the airport.

It took three changes of car, but eventually she found herself walking through the airport entrance, her bag filled with cash that she had withdrawn from a cash machine outside. She had a fake American passport that she had kept from her KGB days, under the name of Natalie Rushman. She hoped that it would be enough to get her out of the country fast enough before anyone noticed she was missing.

She felt numb, putting one foot in front of the other as if on autopilot. She drifted over to the departure board, a sense of dread settling over her as she caught sight of a flight to Moscow.

Home.

It felt incredibly jarring to be in the airport. It felt as though her time in America – with Clint, with Laura, with Cooper – had all been a dream, hazy and too perfect to have been real. Now, she was waking up from the dream, waking up to a reality which was much colder, greyer and harsher.

She was a fool to ever believe she could become anything more than the monster the KGB had made her to be. She could never escape her destiny. She could never change who she was. Director Fury was right, Madame B was right; she had no place in the world.

Her mobile phone began to ring, vibrating in her pocket as it sang its merry jingle. She pulled it out, looking at the name on the screen and taking a deep breath to steady herself as her heart clenched with pain and regret.

_Clint calling..._

Her finger hovered over the button for a moment as she considered whether or not she should answer. She did not want to say goodbye, it did not feel as though their story was over, it hurt more than she could ever have imagined to have to let him go.

In the end, she hit the answer button. He had taken her into his home, given her so much over the last year; enough memories to last a lifetime. He deserved a proper goodbye.

"I'm leaving, Clint," she said, before Clint could speak. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here. I'm not worthy of being a SHIELD agent."

"Auntie Nat?"

Natasha's hand tightened around the phone as Cooper's confused voice sounded in her ear. She remembered the time he had picked her flowers in the meadow. She remembered how he had insisted in sleeping in her bed after he had a nightmare, because she made him feel safe. She remembered playing in the snow with him and making snow angels.

"Hey, Cooper," she said weakly.

"Leaving?" he asked, his voice high and innocent and confused. "Where you going, Auntie Nat?"

Natasha looked up at the departure board in front of her, her throat suddenly tight as she looked at the flight time and gate number for Moscow.

"To Russia," she replied, her voice shaking. "To my home."

On the other end of the phone, Cooper giggled. Natasha closed her eyes as she listened to the sweet sound, committing it to memory.

"Silly, you live in my house," he said happily, as if it were the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. "I love you, Auntie Nat."

Natasha heard shuffling at the other end of the line as the phone switched hands, and suddenly it was Laura's voice in her ear.

"Please don't go, Natasha," she begged softly. "We want you here. You're part of our family. Whatever's going on, we'll work it out. Just... please don't go."

More shuffling, and then Clint's voice was on the line, uncharacteristically soft.

"Hey."

Natasha swallowed around a lump in her throat that refused to budge. Clint had saved her life in Sao Paulo. He had given her a home and accepted her instantly as part of his family. He believed she was worth it, he thought she could be reformed and live a new, better life working for SHIELD. He was wrong.

"Hey," she whispered, because more than anyone else, Clint deserved a goodbye.

She was going to miss him so much.

"Phil told me that Fury was a dick to you in The Interview," he said, an edge of hurt and anger in his tone. "But if you go, you're just going to prove him right. So prove him wrong."

Natasha shook her head, turning away from a couple who were staring at her because of the tears slipping down her cheeks.

"But he's right," she said, her voice cracking as a wave of pain shuddered through her body.

" _He's not_ ," said Clint. "Don't go.  _Please_ don't go. We'd miss you, Nat. We love you."

Barely holding back a sob, she hung up, letting the phone clatter to her feet.

She looked up at the departure board. The word  _Moscow_ was calling to her mockingly, reminding her of where she belonged.

Taking a deep breath, she made her decision.

She went home.

 

* * *

 

It was night.

The farmhouse windows looked bright and inviting in the dark, like a lighthouse calling to a lost ship.

She figured it was not too far from the truth.

She stopped the engine of her stolen motorbike and parked it by the side of the house, vowing to take it back, cleaned and refuelled, the next day.

Talking, laughter and the smell of delicious food wafted out of the window to where she was stood outside.

As she made her way up the steps, she touched a dreamcatcher, making it spin. She watched it for a while.

Finally, she forced herself to cross the porch and wrapped her hand around the door handle. Taking a deep breath, she twisted it open and stepped inside.

As she closed the door behind her, the house descended into silence. She could hear whispering coming from the kitchen. Sighing, she made her way to the kitchen, stopping abruptly when she rounded the corner.

Balloons and bunting were everywhere. A banner bearing the word  _congratulations_ hung from one of the beams in the ceiling. There was cake and vegetable pie and bowls full of crisps on the kitchen table.

"Congratulations!"

Clint, Laura, Cooper and Phil jumped out from behind the kitchen counter, letting off party poppers and cheering as they took in Natasha's shocked expression.

Clint walked over to her, pulling her into a tight hug, before pulling back and putting a party hat onto her head.

Natasha touched the cheap paper hat self-consciously, a little dazed.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"You passed The Interview," said Clint, beaming. "You're a SHIELD agent."

Natasha's breath caught in her throat. She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts, so convinced that she belonged nowhere but back in the arms of the KGB, that she had not even thought about the outcome of The Interview. In her twisted, broken mind, the question of whether or not she had passed the assessment had been a moot one.

Sensing Natasha's shock, Clint pulled her in for another hug, a much gentler one this time.

"Thank you for coming back," he whispered, quiet enough that no one else could hear.

Natasha clung back, wrapping her arms around him. Just a few hours ago, she had convinced herself that she would never see him again. Holding him now, she realised that she had made the right decision to come back.

"Thank you for changing my mind," she replied, burying her face in his shirt and inhaling his scent.

Clint squeezed her and pulled away with a watery smile, only to be almost immediately replaced by Laura.

Laura pulled her in for a hug and Natasha felt a rush of guilt when she saw that Laura's eyes were red and puffy, as if she had been crying.

"You, me, a chat, later," Laura ordered thickly, wiping away a few fresh tears as she finally released Natasha. "This is your home."

Natasha nodded, squeezing Laura's hands gently in both gratitude and apology.

Apparently not wanting to miss out, Cooper ran across the kitchen and jumped up to hug Natasha as well.

Natasha picked him up, swinging him so that he rested on her hip. The little boy squealed with delight, wrapping his arms around Natasha's neck and planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek. He smelled of milk and that warm animal scent that babies and young children often had.

Natasha closed her eyes and buried her nose in his soft hair, suddenly feeling another wave of relief at coming back. She would never have been able to cope with not watching Cooper grow up.

"We're having a wild party," said Cooper, giggling.

Natasha laughed softly as she pulled back to look him in the face, remembering that Clint had promised a wild party in the morning before she had gone to the SHIELD base.

"Wild? Is that what your daddy said?" she asked, glancing over at Clint with a smirk.

Cooper nodded enthusiastically.

"Because there's party hats," he said, pointing to the paper hat on Natasha's head.

Natasha laughed, planting a gentle kiss on Cooper's forehead as she set him back down on the ground, watching him run to the table where he grabbed a handful of crisps.

Phil approached her last, a relieved smile on his face as he held out his hand for a handshake. Natasha ignored it and pulled him in for a hug instead, her lips quirking when she realised he was still wearing his dull suit.

"Congratulations, Agent Romanoff," said Phil, his eyes twinkling when Natasha finally let him go.

"Thanks," she replied, a grin slowly spreading over her face as she let the title sink in.

Agent Romanoff.

An agent of SHIELD.

The moment was broken by Cooper throwing a cheese biscuit at Phil, causing the man to turn and stride over to the giggling toddler, attempting to tell him off while Cooper roared with laughter.

The next couple of hours were spent eating party food and drinking a bottle of wine that had mysteriously appeared from Clint's man-cave under the stairs.

The conversation flowed easily, and Natasha heard all about a holiday that the Bartons and Phil had gone on a couple of years before in Spain, finally learning that the matching dreamcatchers in Phil's office and the Barton household were indeed bought together, in a shop in Spain.

No one mentioned the fact that Natasha had very nearly returned to the KGB, and Natasha did not know if she was grateful or embarrassed for it.

After a while, Clint and Phil left the kitchen to go upstairs to put Cooper to bed, talking about action films, leaving Natasha alone with Laura.

As soon as the men had left the room, Laura reached out to take Natasha's hand in her own.

"Thank you for coming back. I was so worried when I realised you'd disappeared," said Laura, her eyes shining with tears. "Did the thought of moving out to make room for the baby have anything to do with it? Because if you want to stay, we'll build an extension, it's no bother, seriously."

Natasha stared at her, horrified that Laura could think that she was in any way to blame for Natasha's meltdown today.

"No," said Natasha, holding Laura's hand tightly. "It wasn't that."

She paused, looking at the window that was steamed up due to the warmth of the kitchen and the coolness of the night air outside.

"When I left the KGB, Nikolai, the head of the organisation said that one day I would return, when I realised I could never become more than the cold-hearted bitch of a killer that they'd raised me to be," she said quietly. "Today, with The Interview, I realised how much the KGB had shaped me. I passed those tests using skills I'd learnt at the Red Room Academy. And then what with everything that Fury said, I guess I just... broke. I thought I wasn't worthy of being a SHIELD agent. I thought that Nikolai was right, that I could never escape my destiny and become anything more than the machine they'd raised me to be. That's why I left. Because I thought I could never be more, so why bother trying."

"You were wrong," came Phil's voice from behind her, making her jump. She had not heard Phil and Clint return. "You  _are_ worthy of being a SHIELD agent. And you did it. You passed The Interview and proved everyone wrong: the KGB, Fury, everyone who ever doubted you. Well done, Natasha."

Natasha blushed at the praise, ducking her head, unable to look anyone in the eye. They were all looking at her with such love and respect. It made her heart swell with emotion. She could not believe she had been broken enough to almost walk away from all this. She still had a long way to go in her recovery, she realised.

"Listen, the KGB – the fucked up things they made you do, the way they made you think so little of yourself –  _that's_ what's evil, not you," Clint added earnestly.

Natasha nodded, still holding tightly onto Laura's hand. Her hand felt like a lifeline, anchoring her and stopping Natasha from breaking down completely.

"Hey, if you wanted to move out, my apartment has room for two," said Phil. "I have a spare bedroom sitting empty. Unless it'd be too weird to share an apartment with your boss?"

A feeling of warmth started to unfurl in Natasha's chest as she let the offer sink in. Home. Not Russia, not the KGB, but here, with people she loved: Clint, Laura, Phil.

"No, that wouldn't be weird," she said, smiling. "That would be lovely."

Phil smiled. Clint gave a little whoop, pumping the air.

"All of us," said Laura, gesturing to herself, Clint and Phil. "We're your family, OK? You need us, we're here. You don't need to run away."

Natasha looked at her, really looked, taking in her long brown hair and the swell of her baby bump. She shifted her attention to Clint and Phil, one muscular, the other slim, both with the same look of kindness in their blue eyes.

"You're my family," she said slowly, letting it sink in, before repeating it again, mostly to herself. " _You're my family._ "

They nodded, and after a while, Natasha nodded too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE KGB: A few of you had questioned the ease with which the KGB let Natasha go. To recap, they had said that they would let her go because one day she would realise she could never become more than the killer they made her to be, and when she realised this she would return to them. I hope that this chapter has helped to address this issue. Because the fact is, they were very nearly right. If the Bartons had not realised that Natasha was missing and called her in time, she would have left the country and returned to the KGB following her traumatising questioning by Fury. Let me reiterate: Natasha was going to get on that plane and fly back to Moscow. It is my headcanon that the KGB had released a small number of Red Room Academy graduates before, but they had all failed to adjust to freedom and eventually returned, hence the head of the KGB's confidence that Natasha would do the same. In the first part of this story, I tried hard to make it clear that the Red Room Academy's brainwashing was horrendously, terribly, brutally intense; it would not surprise me at all if Natasha was the only graduate to ever break free (mentally as well as physically) and successfully adjust to a different life.
> 
> NICK FURY: Please don't hate Director Fury for how he behaved in this chapter. As Director of SHIELD, his highest priority is to keep his agents safe, and that involves rigorously testing potential threats, which in this case was Natasha. Yes, he behaved like a dick, but he did it to protect his agents from harm, not because he has anything against Natasha personally. He genuinely believed Natasha was a threat, and he happened to be wrong. Now that he knows that, he will treat her with a lot more kindness in the future.
> 
> FEELS: Did any of you feel any feeeeeelings whilst reading this chapter? I was flailing around whilst writing certain parts, so I rather hope that this chapter evoked an emotional response in you guys too (because (1) I love playing with your lovely little hearts, and (2) if I was the only one to react so emotionally to this chapter, then I am obviously far too invested in this fictional universe that's raging on in my head...)
> 
> MYERS-BRIGGS: Are there any Myers-Briggs enthusiasts out there? Personally, I am a big Myers-Briggs nerd! What do you think Natasha's Myers-Briggs type would be?
> 
> THE LIE DETECTOR: If you're interested, you can view the lie detector [ here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/158546130991/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)!
> 
> THANK YOU: A big thank you again to everyone who's left such lovely comments, or followed/messaged [ me on Tumblr](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/), or who's simply silently reading this. Your comments, kudos, enthusiasm and excitement are beautiful and extremely motivating <3
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "You Are The Light" and will be a big, steaming pile of fluff involving Natasha, Phil and the Barton family on a camping holiday.


	23. You Are The Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies this chapter is a little later than expected. My auntie went into hospital which was a big stress (she's better now, thankfully), and then I attended a wedding in Southwell at the weekend, and both of these events meant I didn't get as much writing done as usual. I hope the fluffiness makes up for the delay! Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. As always, [ chapter art.](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/158894413761/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)

2008 – Aged 24

 

* * *

 

The warm August air wafted in through the open window.

Natasha sat back, leaning against the squishy turquoise pillows that covered her and Phil's light grey sofa.

Phil was sat opposite her on the other end of the sofa, a little smirk tugging at his lips as he looked at her.

Natasha ignored him, her attention focused solely on the seven letters printed on little squares in front of her.

DRJPXGZ

Cursing the lack of vowels, she picked up the letters Z and P and placed them on the board above and below the letter A, to form the word  _zap_.

With a squeal of delight, Phil grabbed his squares and excitedly laid them out on the board horizontally from the letter Z she had just put down.

 _Zucchini_.

Natasha stared at the board for a long moment, before her eyes snapped back up to Phil's beaming face.

"What the hell, dude?" she demanded.

Phil leaned back against the cushions, tossing his head back as he grinned at the ceiling, throwing his arms up in a gesture of victory.

"The undisputed scrabble champion retains his title!" he crowed, as Natasha threw one of the little squares at his nose.

"I hate scrabble," she said, scowling, although there was no malice in her voice.

Phil grinned at her as he gathered together the scrabble pieces and put them back in the box.

"How long until they get here?" asked Natasha, fiddling with the straps of her oversized backpack that was nestled on the floor between her feet.

Phil glanced up at the clock on their living room wall, grabbing hold of his own backpack and swinging it onto his knees as he settled back down onto the sofa next to her.

"Shouldn't be long," he said. "Clint said he'd text when they were outside."

Natasha's stomach fluttered with excitement. She, Phil, Clint, Laura, Cooper and baby Lila were going to go on a camping holiday to Yosemite National Park for two weeks. It would be Natasha's first proper holiday, and she found that she was inordinately excited for it.

She was also excited to see the whole Barton family again. She saw Clint at work, of course, but since she had moved into Phil's flat four months previously, she had not spent a protracted amount of time with the rest of the family, apart from occasionally going around for dinner.

It was also going to be the first time she would meet Lila, who had been born a little earlier than expected, in June. Natasha clearly remembered the look of panicked excitement when Clint had got the call during training, the afternoon that Laura had gone into labour. Natasha was looking forward to meeting the baby girl, feeling a strong familial bond even though they were not biologically related.

"Have you ever gone camping before?" asked Phil, resting his cheek on his arm as he nestled against the back of the sofa, looking across at her.

Natasha thought back to her very first mission with the KGB, when she had travelled down from Russia to Saudi Arabia to assassinate Abbud Masoud. She remembered pitching up a tent between the Caspian Sea and the Greater Caucasus Mountains, the feeling of liberation that had come from staring up at the starry sky and the perfect full moon, the beauty of the natural landscape untouched by human settlements or pollution. It had been her first taste of freedom; intoxicating, wonderful, terrifying.

"Just once," she said. "It's been a while."

"Ever been to Yosemite?" said Phil.

Natasha shook her head.

Phil gave a happy sigh as he stared off into the distance, his mind clearly wandering elsewhere. Natasha felt the corners of her mouth twitch into a small smile as she watched him.

In the four months since she had moved in, Natasha had learned a lot about Phil – his personality, his habits, his mannerisms. Phil was quiet, reflective, sentimental; a fan of cooking and film nights and scrabble. He disliked rowdy bars and loud nightclubs. He got excited about classic cars and Captain America and funny hats. His favourite drink was dandelion and burdock. He was naturally introverted but had welcomed Natasha into his home with ease, and she found that she liked him very much.

"Yosemite is beautiful," said Phil. "You'll love it."

Natasha smiled.

"It's my first vacation," she admitted.

Phil's eyes widened in surprise.

"Really?" he said. "It's a hell of a place to be your first! I read in a museum that as a boy, Steve Rogers went on a camping trip to Yosemite with a charity for asthmatic children. The air in Yosemite is so pure and clean, that they thought it would help their lungs recover from the dirty air of New York City."

Natasha smiled as Phil's face glazed over with a look of wonder and excitement; he was such a Captain America nerd it was unreal. He had shown Natasha his Captain America trading cards once, and she had politely looked through them with him, although she did not truly understand the man's almost childlike enthusiasm.

"Maybe we'll go to the same spot that Steve Rogers set up camp," she teased, a twinkle in her eye. "Breathe the same air he breathed."

Phil's eyes widened with excitement, his face becoming a little flustered, when his mobile phone pinged. Pulling it from his pocket, he unlocked it and scanned the text quickly.

"It's from Clint," he said, standing up from the sofa. "They're outside."

Natasha hopped up and swung her backpack onto her back, going through a mental checklist to make sure that she had got everything. Phil shouldered his own bag and jammed a sun hat onto his head, grabbing his keys off the table and heading to the door. Natasha watched as he locked it and then they headed together down the three flights of stairs that led to the bottom floor.

A broad smile spread over Natasha's face as they exited the block of flats, her eyes falling on a large yellow campervan parked a little way down the street. She waved enthusiastically, a jolt of happiness going through her when she saw the shapes of Clint and Laura wave back, the campervan's horn honking excitedly.

Natasha jogged down the pavement, skidding to a halt as Clint clambered out from the driver's seat side and wrapped her in a hug. Another door slammed and then Natasha found herself enveloped from behind by Laura, trapped in the middle of a warm hug from the two Bartons.

"It's awesome to see you all again," she said, closing her eyes, content to be squashed between them.

"You too, darling," came Laura's voice in her ear, her breath tickling the back of her neck.

A bang on the campervan's window interrupted the moment.

"Auntie Nat! Auntie Nat!" came Cooper's excited cries from inside the vehicle.

With a smile, Natasha extricated herself from between Clint and Laura and opened the campervan's door, swinging Cooper up into a tight hug.

"How's my favourite boy doing?" she asked, closing her eyes and giving Cooper a happy squeeze when she felt the little boy nuzzling against her neck.

"I'm not a boy anymore, I'm a  _brother_ now," he proclaimed proudly, pointing into the campervan where Natasha could see a bundle of blankets in a baby seat.

She laughed softly at Cooper's misunderstanding that boys could not have siblings and stroked his hair.

"Wow," she said. "That's so grown up. Are you being a good big brother?"

Cooper nodded eagerly, his blue eyes wide and sparkling.

"Yeah," he said. "I kiss and pat her. Uncle Phil!"

Natasha smiled as Cooper spotted Phil and passed the excited toddler over to him, taking Phil's bag from his shoulder.

"Just stick those in the back," said Clint, walking around to open the campervan's back doors for her.

Natasha's eyes widened when the campervan's double doors swung open, surprised by the sheer amount of  _stuff_ they had managed to pack into the back. A large tent, food, clothes, outdoor cooking equipment and sleeping bags almost filled the vehicle. She squeezed in her and Phil's bags and stepped out of the way so that Clint could close the doors back up.

"Natasha and Phil, you guys'll have to sit in the back with the kiddos, is that OK?" said Laura, gesturing to the layout of the campervan.

Peering in through the windows, Natasha saw that there were two seats at the front, four seats in the middle, and four seats in the back. The entire back row was completely filled with luggage, however.

"Sure," said Natasha, giving her a wink, opening the door.

Phil slid in first, strapping himself in next to Lila, who was sleeping. Natasha squeezed in next, followed by Cooper. It was a tight squeeze, trapped between Phil and Cooper, but Natasha found that she did not mind the proximity at all. If anything, it gave her comfort and a sense of peacefulness. She smiled.

"Strap in, campers," called Clint from the front, as he started up the engine. "Get comfy. We've got a six-hour drive ahead of us."

Natasha secured her seat belt and relaxed, letting the rumble of the engine cocoon her in a warm bubble of sound.

"So, did you know that Captain America went to Yosemite National Park as a kid, as part of an asthma treatment programme?" enthused Phil, to the group at large.

Natasha snorted softly, grinning as she closed her eyes, letting herself relax completely.

"Captain America?" said Cooper. "Cool!"

"Yeah! Really cool," agreed Phil.

From the front, Clint groaned.

"Dude, Captain America has been dead for 70 years," said Clint. "Can you shut up about him already?"

Even without looking, Natasha could hear the smile in Clint's voice.

Beside her, she felt Phil shake his head.

"Never," he said.

"I'm in charge of 4 children," declared Clint, his tone heavy with exaggerated regret. "Why did I ever volunteer to be the responsible adult in charge of Cooper, Lila, Phil and Natasha?"

Natasha opened her eyes.

"Why am I one of the kids?" she demanded.

Clint smirked as he made eye contact with her via the rear view mirror.

"Y'all look shifty back there," he said. "You've got that glint in your eye, like you're plotting something amongst yourselves."

Natasha opened her mouth to argue, but Laura got in there first.

"Clint, you're the biggest kid in this car," she said firmly. "Do you remember the time you made us dress up as characters from Shrek and go to the midnight viewing when it came out in the cinemas?"

"Shrek's a great movie," muttered Clint.

"Or the time you started a food fight at SHIELD?" Laura continued.

"I remember that," said Phil.

"Or the time you used up all the washing up liquid in the house to make a bubble machine?"

"Laura," Clint whined. "You're making me sound uncool."

They all laughed.

Natasha did not think she had ever heard a more perfect sound.

"How're the babies doing?" asked Laura, about an hour into the drive.

Natasha looked down to where Cooper was slumped against her side, a thumb in his mouth whilst his long brown eyelashes fanned across his cheeks.

"Cooper's asleep," she murmured quietly, not wanting to wake him.

"Lila's just woken up," said Phil.

Natasha craned her neck to look around Phil at Lila. She was tiny, just 2 months old, with large eyes, a button nose and pink cherub lips. Whilst Cooper took after his father, with his light brown hair and blue eyes, Lila looked more like her mother, with darker brown hair and chocolate brown eyes.

As Natasha watched, Lila's gaze turned towards her, her tiny hands making grabbing motions in her blankets.

"Hey Lila," Natasha said softly, leaning over Phil to place her finger in Lila's grasping hand. "Nice to meet you."

Lila gurgled. Her grip on Natasha's finger was surprisingly strong. When Natasha said this out loud, both parents laughed softly from the front of the campervan.

"Yeah. We think she may have a future in wrestling or weight lifting," said Clint.

Natasha extricated her finger from Lila's grasp, only for Cooper to shift in his sleep, reaching out and grasping Natasha's other hand before settling back down with a sigh.

Natasha smiled, leaning back in her chair and gazing out of the window at the open road. Miles and miles of countryside stretched out in all directions.

The yellow campervan trundled on, carrying its strange little family of four Bartons, one Romanoff and one Coulson.

 

* * *

 

They arrived, as Clint had predicted, six hours after they set off.

By then, the sun was slowly sinking in the sky, giving the task of setting up camp more impetus. They unloaded all the camping equipment from the back of the campervan, grabbing the tent, ground sheet, sleeping bags and pillows. The Bartons had brought a large tent that was big enough for the six of them.

As Clint, Laura and Natasha struggled with the large tent, Phil went off to collect some wood to build a fire. Cooper ran around, re-energised after his nap, getting in everyone's way.

After around half an hour, the tent was up and a small fire was roaring nearby, the firewood surrounded by a tight circle of stones to keep it under control.

Clint wandered back to the campervan, emerging a few minutes later with his arms laden with food, a pot and a crate.

"Who wants to help me cook food over the fire?" he asked.

A chorus of yeses rang out and they all gathered around more closely as Clint set up the pot over the fire, heaping in vegetables, herbs and water.

"And let's not forget the fun part," Clint winked, pulling out a pack of sausages and skewers and handing them out. Natasha skewered her sausage and sat back, drawing her knees up to her chin as she held the sausage above the fire.

She gazed into the flames, the hot licks of yellow and orange almost hypnotic in their movements. A feeling of warm contentment settled over her. This was freedom, cooking food over an open fire with friends. Her eyes flicked between each of their faces, Phil's gentle smile as he stared at the fire, Clint's look of concentration as he stirred the vegetables, Laura looking down at Lila as she breastfed her, Cooper clinging to his father's leg with one hand as the other held a skewer.

This was belonging.

This was what it meant to have a family.

Once the sausages and vegetables were properly done, they dug into their food, chatting easily as they warmed themselves around the fire. The sun had set by now, and the blackness of the night was absolute, the sky untouched by light pollution. When Natasha looked up, she could see the constellations, the sweeping arm of the Milky Way painting a swathe of stars across the sky.

"Beautiful," she muttered.

"Thanks, darling," said Clint, waggling his eyebrows at her as Laura flicked his arm.

Natasha shook her head with a good-natured scoff.

"I meant the sky, you swine," she said, the corners of her eyes crinkling into a smile as she laughed.

Clint's shoulders slumped as he pretended to look put out, before his eyes softened as they fell on Cooper, who had just keeled over sideways into Clint's lap, fast asleep.

"Time to put the little ones to bed," he said, nudging Laura, who looked down at Lila sleeping in her arms and nodded in agreement. "Nat, Phil, you two behave yourselves while we're gone."

Natasha and Phil laughed gently, watching Clint and Laura as they carried their children to the tent, disappearing inside to get them wrapped up and settled in for the night.

For a couple of minutes they sat in comfortable silence, just listening to the fire crackling and gazing up at the sky.

"Did you know that the Milky Way is on a collision course with the Andromeda galaxy?" asked Phil suddenly.

Natasha blinked as she looked at him and shook her head.

"I didn't know that, no," she said.

Phil nodded, sighing a little and smiling a sad smile.

"Yeah," he said. "Not for another 4 billion years, but eventually, it'll happen. Sometimes, when I get stressed, I think about that. It helps me to de-stress, put things into perspective. Makes me remember that I'm just one guy and in the grand scheme of things, my life isn't important at all. So I try not to worry about stuff, I try to just enjoy the ride."

Natasha was silent for a while, thinking it over. Life was fleeting, over in a heartbeat, and she knew that what Phil was saying was right – apart from one bit.

"I think your life is important," she said quietly.

Phil looked over at her, his eyes wide as he gave her a hesitant smile. He reached over and gave her hand a little squeeze.

"Thanks, Nat," he said.

The crunch of twigs underfoot alerted them to Clint and Laura's return. Natasha looked up to see them holding hands and smiled automatically. Even after knowing them for over a year, their little loving gestures still warmed her heart.

"Time to crack open the beers, I think," said Clint, pulling out four beers from the crate he had been sitting on previously and handing them around.

Natasha opened her bottle and took a long swig from it, enjoying the feel of the slightly warm liquid going down her throat. After about half a bottle, she felt the beginnings of a pleasant buzz and rested her head in the cup of her hand as she listened to Phil and Clint chatting about classic cars.

"No way, dude, the 1967 Chevy Impala beats Lola hands down," said Clint.

Phil pursed his lips and shook his head as he folded his arms.

"Lola has talents you don't even know about," Phil said cryptically.

Clint turned to Natasha, spreading his hands wide.

"Natasha, you're the deciding vote," he said. "Which is better – the beautiful, sleek, perfect 1967 Chevy Impala, or Phil's big red monstrosity Lola?"

Natasha laughed, tipping her head back.

"Hey, don't get me involved," she said. "I like the yellow campervan."

Laura nodded in approval at her answer, whilst Clint whined and scuffed the ground with the toe of his shoe.

"How're you enjoying camping, Nat?" asked Laura, her brown eyes shining and reflecting the flames as she looked at Natasha over the top of the campfire.

Natasha licked at the top of her beer bottle as she considered her answer. Camping with Phil and the Bartons was so much more than she had expected. She had not known how good it would feel to do the little things, like setting up the tent, or cooking meals over the fire, or just sitting around and chatting in a circle together.

It felt  _right_ , as though this was where she belonged. Not Yosemite National Park necessarily, but just being with Phil, Clint, Laura and the children.

"I like it," she said. "I feel free. Like my old life is just some crazy dream that can't even touch me anymore."

Clint reached over and squeezed her hand.

"No one's ever going to hurt you again," he said. "I promise. If anyone wants to get to you, they'll have to go through us first."

Phil and Laura nodded in agreement.

With a jolt, Natasha remembered how Clint very rarely made promises. A promise from Clint – that meant something. It made emotion swell in her chest to think that all three of them were willing to protect her – even Laura, a civilian with no combat training whatsoever.

"Thanks, guys," she said, her throat a little tighter than she expected.

She dropped her eyes and gazed into the fire for a while, letting the warmth of Clint's promise and the campfire soak through to her soul.

"Oh my God," said Phil suddenly, breaking the silence. "Imagine if Captain America had set up camp  _right here_."

Natasha groaned theatrically as Laura laughed and Clint buried his face in his hands.

"Not Captain America again, man," said Clint, through his fingers. "The dude's been dead 70 years, did you miss the memo?"

Phil ignored him, looking around excitedly, as if he expected to see a young, asthmatic Steve Rogers walking through the trees towards them.

"You got a crush on the good Captain, Phil?" teased Laura, her eyes twinkling.

Even by the dim firelight, Natasha could make out the pink tinge that appeared on Phil's cheeks as he blushed.

"No," he said, sounding flustered. "Although... I guess he's attractive, for a man."

Clint punched the air with mock jubilation.

"Phil finally admits his Captain America-oriented sexuality!" he said. "I always knew there was more to the fanboying than met the eye."

Phil crossed his arms, looking a little defensive.

"It's not like that," he said. "Captain America's a national hero. I admire his bravery. And hey, there's nothing wrong with having a crush on another man."

"So, do you?" asked Laura, smiling. "Have a crush on Captain America, I mean."

Phil fiddled with the sleeve of his jumper, before shrugging.

"Maybe?" he said. "He's my biggest man-crush, I guess."

Natasha smiled.

"Fair," said Clint, taking another swig of beer. "I'm not gay but I think Jensen Ackles from Supernatural is hot. Those lips and eyes, holy fuck."

Laura let out a little squeal of excitement and nodded vigorously.

"Jensen Ackles is  _gorgeous_!" she said, gazing off into the distance dreamily. "The things I bet those lips could do..."

"Hey," whined Clint, pouting. "We're meant to be talking about  _same-sex_  crushes."

Laura laughed and sipped some of her beer as she cocked her head to the side pensively.

"Carey Mulligan is my girl-crush," she said finally. "She's cute."

They all turned to Natasha. Natasha suddenly found her cheeks growing hot as she realised what their expectant looks meant and busied herself with drinking the rest of her beer instead.

"Well?" asked Clint. "We've all admitted our same-sex crushes, who's yours?"

Natasha shifted uncomfortably as she fiddled with her empty beer bottle. Her sexuality was not something she had ever discussed with any of them. It was not something that she was ashamed of, but it was something she was aware that not many people understood.

"I'm not really attracted to anyone," she said carefully, avoiding their eyes.

"What? Like,  _anyone_?" asked Clint, sounding surprised. "Male or female?"

A flicker of annoyance stirred inside her. For all that she liked Clint, sometimes he could be extremely blunt.

"That's what I said," she said curtly, before sighing and letting the tension leave her shoulders. These were her friends. They loved her and meant her no harm or offence; she should not be annoyed at them for being curious. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Sorry, that was rude. Yeah... I'm not attracted to anyone. Never have been."

"Is it... a trauma thing?" asked Laura quietly.

Natasha flinched, understanding immediately that Laura was referring to her almost-rape at the hands of the Winter Soldier.

"No," Natasha said quickly. "No, definitely not. It wasn't triggered by a traumatic event. I've just never been attracted to anyone in a romantic or sexual way."

Clint's eyes widened as he leaned forward towards her, his mouth slightly agape.

"Hang on," he said. "So are you a  _virgin_?"

Natasha tilted her chin up defensively.

"Yes," she said.

Clint's eyes almost bulged out of his head.

"Oh my God!"

Laura kicked sandy dirt towards her husband.

"Shut up, Clint," she said, a steely edge to her tone. "Asexuality is perfectly normal. If Natasha is or isn't attracted to anyone, that's no one's business but her own. It's not  _oh my God_."

Clint blushed, ducking his head and looking ashamed as he seemingly realised how intrusive his questioning had been. When he finally looked up at Natasha, his eyes were wide with regret and hurt.

"I'm sorry, Nat," he said quietly. "That was fucking rude of me. I've never met an asexual person before, so I was curious, but I didn't mean to make you feel like a... like a freak or anything. Are we OK?"

Natasha gave him a small smile as she nodded.

"We're good," she assured him.

Phil shifted his position, leaning forwards on his elbows.

"If you don't mind me asking, even if you don't feel sexual attraction, have you ever been in love?" he asked cautiously. "Like, just romantic love, nothing sexual."

Natasha was quiet for a moment, considering Phil's question.

She remembered when she and Elena had been 10 years old, when they had climbed that beech tree on that hot summer's day.

_You're my best friend. I love you._

_I love you too. You're my favourite person in the whole wide world._

She remembered the way that had felt – that warm, safe feeling, like something happy and fuzzy.

"I have loved people," she said quietly. "I  _do_ love people – Elena, James, all of you guys – but it's not romantic. I love you like family."

Laura smiled and passed around some new bottles of beer.

"To loving one another like family," she said. "I'll drink to that."

Natasha accepted the new bottle with a smile and popped the top off. Four pairs of blue, brown and green eyes met over the campfire as they clinked their glasses together in a toast.

"To family."

 

* * *

 

Yosemite National Park was beautiful.

It stretched out around them for hundreds of miles in all directions, a stunning mixture of mountains, forests and lakes.

They went walking, swimming and spent plenty of time simply relaxing and enjoying the scenery and the solitude.

It was beautiful, still and peaceful. Natasha relaxed completely, allowing herself to completely detach from the outside world and simply appreciate the wonderful experiences and memories she was creating in that moment. Natasha suddenly understood why the Bartons were such fans of the great outdoors. It was beyond description, this wonderful feeling of calmness and freedom.

About half way through their two-week holiday, the six of them decided to hike to Artist Point, which would allow them to see the famous, panoramic Tunnel View. Progress was slow, what with Cooper and Lila having to be carried by their parents, but Natasha did not mind the slow pace; it meant that they had more time to simply chat amongst themselves and admire the scenery.

They walked up the wooded path, twigs cracking underfoot. They had been walking for around 2 miles and had gained around 500 feet in elevation. Natasha was pleasantly warm, her breathing a little harder than normal but not laboured.

They rounded the corner, stepping out onto an outcrop of rock that overlooked the valley.

Natasha gasped.

It was stunning. The tree-filled valley stretched out ahead of them, bracketed on both sides by tall beautiful mountains that went all the way to the horizon. In the distance, a waterfall tumbled down one of the mountains on the left hand side, kicking up a fine spray when it hit the valley floor.

What held her attention most of all, however, was the sky.

It was big and blue and Natasha stood there for what felt like an age, transfixed.

After a long while, she became aware of a presence standing next to her.

"What're you thinking?" Phil asked gently, keeping his voice low so that the others could not hear them.

Natasha was not sure how to respond; what she was experiencing was a feeling, something difficult to put into words. How could she communicate the powerful catharsis that she was feeling, to finally understand what James had said all those years before?

"When I was young, I had a friend called James," she said finally. "He told me that he thought that freedom looked like a big blue sky."

She tilted her head backwards, staring up at the azure sky that seemed to go on forever. Beside her, Phil nodded, looking thoughtful.

"I think I understand what he meant, now," Natasha continued. "It's so beautiful. I wish he were here to see it."

She finally tore her eyes away from the sky, looking back to where the Bartons had laid out a blanket on the ground a little further back from the outcrop. She watched them silently for a while. Laura was breastfeeding Lila. Clint was tickling Cooper while the little boy laughed. She stared hard, trying to commit the scene to memory, because she felt sure that this was what perfection looked like, and it was not something she wanted to forget.

Suddenly, she felt as though her heart was breaking, because there were people out there who were willing to destroy all of this for their own selfish agendas.

"Why do people do bad things?" she asked Phil. "Why do people kill and fight and start wars? Why can't life just be like this?"

Phil sighed, looping an arm around Natasha. Natasha leaned against him, closing her eyes and breathing in his natural scent, just noticeable underneath the smell of his deodorant and insect repellent.

"I don't know," he murmured. "But that's why we do what we do. We're the shield that protects people like Laura and Cooper and Lila from all the bad people out there."

Natasha nodded. She had always  _known_ what it meant to be a SHIELD agent, but it was only perhaps now that she truly  _understood_ it.

She opened her eyes to watch the Bartons a little longer. Moments like these were fleeting and fragile and beautiful in their rarity.

Natasha smiled.

She loved them.

 

* * *

 

Before she knew it, it was the final night of their two-week camping holiday.

It was getting late. They had already put the children to bed and the four adults were lying on their backs outside the tent, staring up in silence at the night sky.

It was another cloudless night, which meant that the sweeping arm of the Milky Way was fully visible once more, resplendent in its other-worldliness.

"Have you enjoyed your first vacation?" asked Clint.

Natasha nodded, smiling.

"It's been amazing," she said, not taking her eyes off the beautiful night sky.

They lay there in silence for a little while longer, until eventually Clint started humming a tune. After the first few bars, Laura joined in, singing quietly in the darkness.

 _"Are you made of fire?_  
_Are you a flame?_  
_You've taught my eyes,_  
_How to see again._

 _I was down so low,_  
_I could not see,_  
_Couldn't feel the good old,_  
_Soul in me._ "

As she listened to Laura sing, Natasha experienced a strong feeling of déjà vu. The feeling of familiarity tugged at her mind incessantly, refusing to go away. She thought furiously about when she had heard the song before, and then it hit her.

On her first night in America, when Clint and Laura had put her to bed after her breakdown, they had sung this song to her to lull her to sleep.

 _"But in the darkest night,_  
_The stars shine bright._  
_When all is dark,_  
_You are the light._

 _In those deep depths,_  
_Bottom of the sea,_  
_You were a lighthouse,_  
_Believed in me._

 _Thought I was bad,_  
_Oh I was sad,_  
_Thought I was going,_  
_Gosh darn mad._

 _But in the darkest night,_  
_The stars shine bright._  
_When all is dark,_  
_You are the light._

 _But in the darkest night,_  
_The stars shine bright._  
_When all is dark,_  
_You are the light."_

Laura held the final note for a couple of seconds, letting the soulful sound reverberate in the night air before it finally faded away. Natasha brought up her hand to wipe tears from her eyes. The song was simple but beautiful, sang with such tenderness that Natasha was sure there was a hidden story behind it.

"That was wonderful," she whispered.

Phil hummed in agreement, sniffling a little, clearly as touched by the song as Natasha.

"My grandma wrote it," said Laura. "She wrote it as a love song for my granddad when they were dating. She had depression, in an age before they accepted that depression was a thing, and my granddad helped her through it. She always called him her lighthouse, like he saved her from the darkness."

There was a pause in which Natasha heard Clint give Laura a gentle kiss.

"She died five years ago, but we're trying to keep the song going, in remembrance of her," continued Laura. "The song actually makes me think of you, Natasha. Sometimes you don't see how good you are, just like my grandma didn't when she was ill."

Natasha lay silently for a while. It was true. She still sometimes struggled to reconcile her past with her present. Sometimes she still woke up sweating, having dreamed of carving up Valentina Drakova or with the phantom smell of burning hospital beds still lingering in her nose.

But she was getting better. She was not forgetting what she had done, but she starting to forgive herself. With every successful mission saving innocent people with SHIELD, or whenever she heard the joy in Cooper or Laura's voices when they spoke to her on the phone, she found herself believing more and more that she could be a good person. 

She was not fixed, but she was getting there. Phil, Clint, Laura, even little Cooper and Lila, were all helping her get there.

Perhaps they were her lighthouses.

"You are the light," she said, after a long pause. It was a statement, not a question.

She felt Laura reach out and squeeze her hand in the darkness.

"Always," she replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LILA BARTON: If you were paying attention, you may remember that Natasha suggested the name "Lila" to Clint back in chapter 21 when Clint revealed that Laura was expecting a daughter. They chose her name, yey!
> 
> THE SONG: I wrote the song. *sweats nervously*. I've never written a song before. So if it was crap, that's why.
> 
> FORESHADOWING: The song was foreshadowed! If you look back at Chapter 19, you will see this line: "The last thing she remembered, just before she slipped into oblivion, was the two of them very quietly singing some unknown song. It had a simple, beautiful melody and was something about fire and flame."
> 
> THE MILKY WAY AND ANDROMEDA GALAXY COLLISION: Yes, the Milky Way and the Andromeda galaxy really are due to collide in 4 billion years... Try not to panic!
> 
> YOSEMITE: Artist Point and Tunnel View are real places in Yosemite National Park. I've never been personally, but the pictures I've seen of it online look beautiful! I'd love to go one day.
> 
> SUPERNATURAL: Are there any Supernatural fans here? I FREAKING LOVE IT. You may have noticed a few references to the show in this chapter... ;)
> 
> LOLA OR THE IMPALA: In this chapter, Phil and Clint argued about which classic car is better - Phil's car Lola (1962 Chevrolet Corvette) or the 1967 Chevrolet Impala (i.e. Dean Winchester's car in Supernatural)! Which do you think is better? View them and comment [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/158892357001/natasha-opened-her-bottle-and-took-a-long-swig)!
> 
> TWO-THIRDS / THANK YOU: That was chapter 23 out of 34, which means we're now around two-thirds of the way through this story! Thank you to everyone who's followed the story so far and left such wonderful comments and kudos. I hope that the final one-third will continue to entertain!
> 
> A SPECIAL THANK YOU: I owe a special thank you to number1bookworm, who has helped me (a Brit) yet again with some American English questions! This story is written in British English, but obviously I want the American characters to use American English vocabulary when they're speaking. Number1bookworm has helped me avoid accidentally using British words for the American characters' dialogue (e.g. flat vs apartment, holiday vs vacation). Thank you, number1bookworm! <3
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "Odessa" and will feature a character from Natasha's past. Very observant fans of the second Captain America film may have an inkling of what's going to happen...


	24. Odessa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, here's the [chapter art](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/159077799296/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter) I created for this chapter.

2009 – Aged 25

 

* * *

 

It was a year later when the events of Odessa happened.

Natasha was at the SHIELD training facility when Phil approached her with a new mission that had just been called in.

"Agent Romanoff, my office please," he said, sticking his head into the room where she was sat reading a book about hostage rescue tactics.

Natasha marked her page in the book and closed it with a snap, getting to her feet and following Phil to his office.

They were good at separating their work and personal lives. Whilst they were Phil and Natasha at home, they were Agent Coulson and Agent Romanoff at work, and they had a good professional respect for one another, as well as a personal one.

"Take a seat," said Phil, picking up a file from his desk and settling down in his seat.

Natasha sat opposite him, lacing her fingers together in her lap.

"A new job?" she queried.

Phil nodded, sliding the file across the table to her.

"Just a simple one," he said. "I need you to escort a nuclear engineer from Tehran, Iran to Berlin, Germany. You'll be driving, so the journey should take around 4 or 5 days."

Natasha nodded. Since she had re-taken her driving test in the US last year, she had been on several driving jobs, transporting both people and objects from one place to another that needed security for whatever reason.

"Just me?" she asked. "Will I have any back-up?"

Phil nodded.

"I'll be following a short distance behind you in a second vehicle, just in case anything happens," he said. "This isn't a combat mission though, so the risks of anything actually happening are very low. It'll just be a precaution."

"Will you be taking Lola?" Natasha teased.

Phil shuddered, his eyes widening in horror.

"You think I'd take my baby out in the field?" he said, looking appalled. "No, I'll be driving a standard SHIELD car, thank you very much."

Natasha laughed softly. Phil shot her a smile in return.

"Why does an engineer need a security escort?" Natasha wondered out loud.

She saw the exact moment when the smiling face of housemate Phil closed off to become the professional face of Agent Coulson.

"Don't worry about that," he said, his tone a little more reserved. "All you need to do is get him to Berlin. The  _why_ isn't any of your concern."

Natasha snapped her mouth shut and nodded curtly, trying not to feel offended about being kept in the dark.

Sometimes, she was not given the full details of her missions. It was not anything against her personally. Since she had passed The Interview, she had been fully accepted as a SHIELD agent; no one made mention of her past or cast any aspersions as to her loyalty. She had already been promoted to a Level 5 agent, in fact, a feat almost unheard of in an agent's first year.

No, it was simply SHIELD policy that each agent should only have the information necessary to complete their own particular mission. That way, Director Fury insisted, the risks were minimised in case one of them went rogue. No one could spill all their secrets because no one held all the cards.

It was not something Natasha was entirely happy about, but she understood why it was necessary.

Giving Phil a professional nod, Natasha tucked the file under her arm as she stood up.

It was time to go to Tehran.

It was going to be a simple mission.

That was the plan anyway.

 

* * *

 

The nuclear engineer, Dr Dalir Qazwini, was a quiet man.

He was in his fifties, with dark skin, greying hair, and green eyes. He had a long, slightly hooked nose, giving him the appearance of a vulture, especially with his thick, bushy eyebrows.

Natasha had picked him up from the University of Tehran's physics department almost two days beforehand. In those two days of almost continuous driving, and two nights of sleeping in the same vehicle, they had exchanged very few words.

He was not being unfriendly, he was simply not talkative, and that suited Natasha just fine. Occasionally, he would ask for Natasha to adjust the air con, or ask for a toilet break, but mostly they sat in silence.

Natasha did not mind the quietness; she was fairly quiet herself, and it was easier to concentrate on the task of driving when there were no distractions in the form on idle conversation.

She would tell Qazwini whenever they entered a new country, and each time the engineer would smile and nod politely, thanking her for the update.

So far, they had passed through Iran, Azerbaijan and Russia, and were currently in Ukraine.

Natasha glanced at a road sign as they passed. They were 10 miles out from Odessa, the last major city in Ukraine before the Moldovan border.

"We're getting close to Moldova," she said, briefly making eye contact with Qazwini in the rear view mirror. "That means we're about half-way through the trip."

Qazwini nodded seriously from the back seat.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, formal and polite as always.

It was when she moved her eyes from the rear view mirror back to the road that it happened.

The sharp crack of the rifle was instantly recognisable, the sound slicing through the air like a whip. She heard two more shots just like it, possibly three, as her mind scrambled to get a handle on the situation.

They were coming under attack, that much was clear, although  _who_ was doing the attacking, and  _why_ , were still unknown variables.

She gripped the steering wheel tightly, her eyes widening as the car shuddered violently and skidded across the road. Gritting her teeth, she twisted the steering wheel, trying to get the car back under control.

Nothing happened.

Horror spurted through her as she realised that the tires had been shot out. She had no control over the car. Time seemed to go in slow motion as the car skidded crazily across the two lanes.

They were rapidly approaching a bend in the road, a rusty metal rail running alongside the edge of the tarmac the only thing to stop them from crashing off the road and down the embankment on the other side.

Natasha knew, instinctively, that the rail was too small, too flimsy, to stop the out-of-control car.

"Brace yourself!" she shouted to Qazwini, hoping he could hear her over the sound of the screeching tires.

The rail rushed up to meet them. Natasha closed her eyes, her heart hammering wildly inside her chest as she clung helplessly to the useless steering wheel. Behind her, she heard Qazwini praying in Persian.

Out of nowhere, a disjointed vision of an entirely different road flashed across her mind – a deer, the thundering sound of hooves, a crunch, a man and a woman slumped in the front seat, covered in red paint.

_Mama. Daddy. Wake up!_

The old, rusty barrier gave way as soon as the car smashed into it.

They flew off the road into empty space as the land abruptly ended, shooting off the top of a small cliff.

For one terrifying moment, the car seemed to hang in mid-air, gravity temporarily halted as Natasha's mind slowed everything down as she desperately tried to process what was happening.

Particles of dust and rock surrounded the car in a hazy cloud. Qazwini was rigid in his seat behind her. The flimsy metal barrier hung in the air just a few feet away.

Everything was horrifyingly, perfectly still.

The moment passed, the cliff-face seeming to rise outside the window as the car started its inevitable plunge through the air down the short cliff.

She watched, powerless, as the cliff-face rushed by in a blur of grey and brown. Sweat erupted all over her body, her heart in her mouth.

Falling...

Falling...

Falling...

The crash back down to earth was as painful as she had expected. The car smashed down to the ground with the terrible sound of crumpling metal, pain shooting through her as the impact jolted her body with enough force to cause blood to spurt out of her nose as if she had been punched.

After several long seconds, the car finally stopped rocking, a cloud of dust surrounding them from where the car had smashed into the ground.

For a moment, she just sat there, dazed, her hands still clamped tight around the wheel that she had not let go of for the entire duration of the fall.

Terror and disbelief warred inside her for dominance. This was supposed to be a simple, non-combat mission. Everything was going so wrong, so fast. It felt like a dream.

The sound of another engine nearby jerked her out of her thoughts.

"Dr Qazwini?" she called out, struggling out of her seat belt and hurriedly wiping the blood from her nose when she felt it dripping down into her mouth. "Are you alright?"

She turned around, her stomach immediately plummeting when she saw Qazwini's condition. He was still alive, his eyes were open and moving, but he had a large gash to his forehead. Blood was pouring down his face, his head lolling onto his shoulder, and he did not seem to have heard her question.

Gritting her teeth, Natasha kicked open the car door and staggered out of the vehicle, moving as quickly as possible around the vehicle to where Qazwini was trapped in the back seat. She pulled open the door and reached in to undo his seat belt. The man mumbled something incoherent, barely looking up when Natasha reached under his armpits to drag him bodily out of the vehicle.

He was heavy, but that was no problem for Natasha. She had been trained almost her entire life for moments like this.

Once they were clear of the ruined car, she propped him up on the ground, slapping his face gently to get his attention.

"Hey! Dr Qazwini, Dalir!" she said. "Can you stand?"

With what looked like a monumental effort, the engineer raised his head to look blearily up at her face.

With a start, he jerked back, his eyes widening and his face paling as he let out a terrified-sounding cry as he looked at a spot over her left shoulder.

Natasha span around on her knees, her hand reaching for a weapon that she had forgotten she did not have, what with it being a non-combat mission.

Half way to her hip, her hand froze, horror flooding through her as her eyes fell on the sight that had so terrified Qazwini.

The Winter Soldier.

It was him, without a shadow of a doubt: strong muscular body, shoulder-length brown hair, leather clothing. He had seven different guns and knives strapped to his body that Natasha could count, and he undoubtedly had more stashed away out of sight. In his right hand was a loaded gun.

Natasha's eyes were automatically drawn to his left arm in horrified fascination. The prosthetic was just as advanced and menacing-looking as she remembered, all silver steel plates that moved as effortlessly as a flesh arm, a red star on his shoulder.

He did not look a day older than he had the last time Natasha had seen him; a curiosity since the last time they had met had been 9 years previously. Time did not seem to have touched him. He still looked just as he had, around 30 years old at a guess.

It was strange, terrifying,  _wrong_.

What frightened Natasha the most, however, were his eyes. There was a cold iciness to them that had nothing to do with their blue hue. There was not the slightest glimmer of warmth in those eyes, no mercy.

"Move," he said, in flawless Russian.

Natasha remembered that the last time they had spoken – when he had started panicking and obsessing about the name James – it had been in English, his accent decidedly American.

Pushing the thought away, she flattened herself against the nuclear engineer cowering behind her, drawing on all her training about conflict de-escalation.

She just had to stall for time. Phil had been driving around a mile behind. Very soon, he should stumble upon the scene. If Natasha could keep the Winter Soldier talking until then, then hopefully Phil would be able to shoot him before he hurt either Natasha or the engineer.

But wait... Their car had crashed off the road several minutes beforehand. Surely Phil should have arrived by now? Cold dread swept through her body at the thought that the Winter Soldier might have killed Phil before coming after her and the engineer.

Not Phil.

_Not Phil._

Phil was a good person. He could not be dead. It was unthinkable. She realised she was shaking.

"I'm not moving," she gritted out, in Russian. "Let's sort this out between us. Tell me what you want."

The Winter Soldier did not move, simply staring down at her with hard, emotionless eyes.

"No," he said, his voice almost monotone. "Move, stranger."

Natasha stared up at the Winter Soldier in horrified confusion. Did he not recognise her? Did he not remember how he had been brought to the Red Room Academy all those years ago, to rape Natasha and her classmates? Did he not know her at all?

"We've met before," she said, her lips sticky with congealing blood. "Don't you remember? You... you refused to rape me. I know you're a good person. Just–"

The Winter Soldier flicked off the safety catch on his gun and pointed it at Dr Qazwini’s heart where he was slumped on the ground. Natasha sat up a little straighter, placing herself firmly in front of him.

"Move," he repeated, his eyes blank and cold.

Natasha stared at him, shocked that he still did not seem to recognise her. She pulled her hair free from her bobble, letting her red curls tumble down her shoulders, trying to approximate her appearance as it had been as a 16-year-old girl in Madame B's bedroom.

"Don't you remember me?" she asked again, switching to English in a desperate hope that it would jog the man's memory.

The Winter Soldier pursed his lips, his nostrils flaring for the briefest moment, his eyes widening with some wild emotion that Natasha could not place. For a moment, Natasha dared to hope, a brief flare of something between relief and excitement unfurling in her chest.

An instant later, however, the look was gone. He clenched his jaw, his eyes returning to hard, Arctic blue.

"No," he said, his tone emotionless.

He pulled the trigger, the kickback jerking the gun once.

Natasha gasped as pain, hot and sharp, erupted in her abdomen. It was more painful than anything she had experienced before; worse than when she had got beaten by a gang member during her first year as a KGB agent, worse even than the time Madame B had sliced her arm open with a knife as a 6-year-old.

She clutched at the wound, looking down to see blood, warm and copious, pouring from her abdomen. Behind her, she could hear Qazwini moaning too, and with a lurch of horror, she realised that the bullet must have gone straight through her and into the nuclear engineer too.

"Put pressure on the wound," she managed to blurt out, before the world tilted on its axis and she found herself lying on her side on the ground.

She tried to shake her head, her movements slow and dreamlike, as the edges of her vision started to grey out. Her heartbeat sounded loud and slow in her ears, her body feeling numb as the blood poured out from under her fingers, despite the pressure she was applying to the wound.

She tried to move but her body refused to obey her commands. Even the pressure of her hand on her abdomen was weakening, as her control over her body continued to slip away. She was losing too much blood.

She watched helplessly as the Winter Soldier melted into the trees, vaguely hearing the roar of a motorbike starting up.

As the sound of the motorbike’s engine faded away, she rolled over onto her back, her head lolling to the side to look up the cliff that the car had plunged down just minutes beforehand.

She blinked, her breathing laboured and her vision fuzzy, as she saw a slim man in a navy suit slipping down the embankment towards her. The man was backlit by the sun, casting him in a bright, ethereal glow. He looked like an angel.

The angel was calling her name, swearing and running towards her, with panic and fear in his voice.

Natasha licked her dry lips, tasting the coppery tang of blood as dots swarmed in on her vision.

She knew the angel's name, somewhere in the back of her mind. She knew him; she remembered camping and scrabble and bowls of popcorn on film nights. The angel – no, the agent... Her friend...  _Phil!_ – was running towards her, his shoes kicking up sand and dust that made her eyes water.

He dropped to his knees beside her.

"Natasha!"

Natasha tried to lift her arm to greet him, but found that the limb was too heavy and floppy to move.

"Phil..."

It came out as a whisper, barely more than a prayer. She was not entirely sure if she said it out loud at all.

She felt Phil's hands go to the wound in her side, increasing the pressure.

As he did so, the pain spiked, her heart stuttering as her eyes rolled back in her head.

The world went black.

 

* * *

 

She woke up slowly.

The first thing that crept its way back into her awareness was the pain, dull at first but gradually becoming sharper as she drifted back to consciousness.

She felt groggy and tired, her mind fuzzy and confused. Gradually, as awareness came back to her bit by bit, she became aware of clean, crisp sheets underneath her. She relaxed into the comfortable bed. She tried moving her hand across the cool linen and found, to her relief, that her body was once more obeying her commands.

It had been terrifying when she had not been able to move properly after being shot during the mission.

The mission...

Natasha's eyes flew open and she sat up abruptly as memories of the attack surged back to her.

She looked around in panic, taking in the bright lights of the small hospital ward and the eerie emptiness of it.

"Hey, hey, Natasha! It's alright. You're OK."

Natasha's eyes fell upon Phil, who was sat next to her bed, and her heart rate slowed as relief flooded through her.

Phil looked dishevelled, his usually pristine suit all rumpled and dirty, his jacket draped haphazardly over the back of his chair and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

He gave her a watery smile, the relief radiating off him in palpable waves. He leaned forward and took her hand gently, holding on to her as if she were something precious. Natasha wondered how long she had been unconscious.

"Where are we?" she asked, realising as soon as she spoke that her throat was parched.

Phil seemed to notice her distress and handed her a glass of water from a table at her bedside.

"We're at a secret SHIELD base in Ukraine," said Phil. "We have small bases in most countries, in case of emergencies like this."

Natasha nodded slowly, sipping her water and feeling significantly more comfortable as the cool water soothed her sore, dry throat.

"What happened?" she said.

Phil closed his eyes, rubbing his free hand across his face. It was only then that Natasha noticed how exhausted he looked.

"I was a couple of miles behind you, so I didn't see you get attacked," he said. "When I arrived at that bend in the road, I found your car at the bottom of the cliff. You and Dr Qazwini were on the ground, shot and barely conscious. I managed to stem both your bleeding and called for back-up from this base. Luckily, they came pretty quickly and were able to operate on you both as soon as we arrived back here."

For the first time, Natasha glanced down at herself. She was dressed in a standard hospital gown. There was a bulge around the abdomen where she could feel bandages. When she tried to move, it hurt.

"Will we be OK?" she asked, trying not to let any of her fear show in her voice.

She was an agent. She had been trained her whole life for this. She did not know what she would do if she could no longer work in the field.

"The doctors think you'll make a full and speedy recovery," said Phil. "The bullet avoided all your organs; it just sliced through your flesh. You'll have some scarring on your left side, but that's all."

Phil avoided her eyes as he finally let go of her hand to fiddle with his tie.

Natasha tried to swallow down the feeling of dread the action elicited. Phil was a calm person. He never fiddled. There had to be more going on than Phil was saying.

"What else?" she asked.

Phil was silent for a moment, biting his lip as if contemplating whether or not he should speak.

"Tell me," Natasha said quietly. "I can take it."

Phil let out a low sigh, his eyes filled with sadness as he looked up to meet Natasha's gaze.

"Dr Qazwini didn't make it," he said. "The doctors tried their best, but the bullet hit him in the heart. The damage was too great. There was nothing they could do."

Natasha tried to get up but pain immediately flared up in her abdomen. Phil placed a firm hand on her shoulder, forcing her back down. Natasha took a deep breath, blinking back tears. Her job had been to safely transport Dr Qazwini. His safety had been her responsibility. He had trusted her to protect him. He should not have died. She should have saved him.

As if he were reading Natasha's train of thought, Phil took hold of her hand once more, giving it a tight squeeze.

"You tried your best," he said firmly. "This isn't your fault. In this job, we try to save as many people as we can, but we can't save everybody."

Natasha whimpered, low in her throat.

Phil shushed her, pushing her carefully so that she was lying back on the bed. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and gently wiped the sweat from her forehead.

Natasha closed her eyes, trying to push down the bitter feeling of terrible disappointment for letting Dr Qazwini down so badly. The man had been quiet and polite – harmless and defenceless. Natasha had been his defence, and she had failed. She bit her lip.

"Did you see who shot you?" asked Phil.

Natasha opened her eyes, fixing Phil's blue orbs with her green ones.

"Yes," she said quietly. "It was the Winter Soldier."

Phil's eyes widened with shock.

"Who?" he asked, letting go of her hand to whip out a notepad and pen from his shirt pocket.

Natasha let her gaze drift to the blank wall on the other side of the hospital ward as she let herself remember.

"The Winter Soldier," she murmured. "He's tall, strong. Brown hair down to his shoulders. Blue eyes. He has a silver metal arm with a red star on the shoulder – it's like a... a really advanced prosthetic. I've never seen anything else like it; not even veterans get prosthetics that good."

She trailed off, remembering how the individual plates of the arm had looked, so intricate and life-like that it moved more like a real arm than an artificial limb.

"He's a KGB agent," she said. "One of the best assassins they've ever had. I met him once, in the Red Room Academy. When we were 16, Madame B said that we had to learn about seduction. The Winter Soldier was sent to... teach us."

She glanced up at Phil, frightened to see revulsion in his eyes but instead finding only sadness.

"When I was left alone with him for my... education, something strange happened. One minute he was the Winter Solider, but the next, he became really mentally confused. He stopped trying to rape me. He changed completely, as if he were a completely different person. It was brilliant, but it was strange."

Phil nodded, his brow furrowed as he chewed on his lip, his expression troubled.

"That sounds very strange," he agreed. "And there's one thing I didn't tell you: ballistics got back to me shortly before you woke up. The bullet was Soviet-made, no rifling. That backs up your Soviet Winter Soldier claim to a tee."

Natasha looked at him gravely, tension thick in the air between them.

"What's going to happen now?" she asked.

Phil gave her a tired smile.

"You're going to rest and recover. A Quinjet will take you back to the US tomorrow morning," he said. "I'm going to have to get in contact with the German and Iranian authorities and let them know about Dr Qazwini."

Natasha fiddled with the hem of her hospital gown.

"What about the Winter Soldier?" she said quietly.

Phil scribbled something down in his notepad and closed it, slipping it into his pocket.

"I'll set up a flag for him on SHIELD's systems," he said. "That means we'll be notified automatically if there's any mention of the Winter Soldier online or in the intelligence community. Without a photograph, we can't run facial recognition scans, unfortunately, so there's not much else we can do."

Natasha nodded. It felt frustrating, not to be able to do more. She felt that there was something very strange about the Winter Soldier. It bothered her.

Phil gave her a small smile as he placed a satellite phone on the bedside table.

"You should call Clint and Laura," he said softly. "They've been pestering me with calls and texts ever since they found out you'd been shot."

Natasha smiled back, a warm feeling washing over her. Clint and Laura cared about her. She should not be surprised by that fact anymore, but for some reason, it still touched her.

"I will," she promised, already looking forward to hearing the Bartons' voices on the other end of the phone. "Right after I've rested my eyes."

She yawned. She was so tired. Talking felt laborious. She had just come out of major surgery, though, so she supposed it was OK to be a little sleepy. She just needed to rest her eyes for a couple of seconds, and then she would call Clint and Laura right away.

Phil gave her a gentle smile as she settled back against her pillows.

She gave him a smile in return before her eyes fluttered closed.

She fell into an exhausted sleep almost immediately.

Her dreams were filled with the feeling of falling and the merciless blue eyes of the Winter Soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER TITLE SPOILERS / STORY ARTWORK: If you want to know the titles of all 34 chapters of this story, I have created a piece of promotional artwork that lists them all and posted it on my Tumblr. I am quite proud of how beautifully this has turned out, because I'm not a particularly arty person at all. As well as listing all the chapter titles, it's also a pretty kickass photo of Natasha, so check it out! (Btw, disclaimer, I did NOT draw it and create either of the two template images: I just edited it to blend the two photos together and did some work with filters and chose pretty colours and fonts.) Feel free to "reblog" it on your own Tumblrs if you wish to spread the love for this fic and tell your fandom friends about it (if you think it's worth sharing, that is, I don't want to be presumptuous, eep)! You can view it [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/162740447326/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-title)! :)
> 
> THANK YOU: As ever, thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, or followed/messaged me on Tumblr. Your support and devotion to this story are amazing!
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "The Abidjan Operation" and will be very action-based. If you recognise this name, then you deserve a million gold stars, because it is literally only shown on-screen for a couple of seconds during Avengers Assemble (or The Avengers, if you're from the US) when it briefly shows Phil watching some old footage from SHIELD's archives!


	25. The Abidjan Operation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on terminology: This story is written in British English. When reading this chapter, please be aware that "first floor" in British English refers to "second floor" in American English!
> 
> As always, [chapter art](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/159332430956/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter) :)

2010 – Aged 26

 

* * *

 

The Abidjan Operation was Natasha's first mission as a newly-promoted Level 7 SHIELD agent.

That morning, she had received three emails. The first, she had been expecting. It was an email confirming her new rank as a Level 7 agent. She had grinned the moment she saw the subject line, a sense of pride settling in her chest. She had successfully completed the exams the week before.

The second email was much more of a surprise. It was informing her that she had been placed on STRIKE Team Delta with Clint Barton, Maria Hill, Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins.

STRIKE stood for Special Tactical Reserve for International Key Emergencies. It was a small, elite task force that came together only for overseas emergencies deemed important enough for SHIELD's intervention. STRIKE members had to be Level 7 or above, and were handpicked by Director Fury himself. STRIKE was notoriously difficult to get into, with only the very best agents who were most skilled at combat making the grade.

When Natasha had called Clint to tell him the news, he had let out a loud cheer down the phone. According to Clint, an agent being placed on a STRIKE team on their very first day as a Level 7 agent was unprecedented.

The third email came in a short while afterwards, calling all STRIKE Team Delta members to Agent Coulson's office immediately.

Natasha quickly exited the SHIELD gym where she was training, not bothering to get changed, slinging her bag containing her clean clothes over her shoulder.

She entered Phil's office without knocking, finding the other STRIKE Team Delta members already there. To Natasha's relief, they were also in varying states of dishevelment. Clint was dressed in sweaty gym clothes as well, whilst the other three were dressed in their normal uniforms, although it looked like they too had come to Phil's office at a run.

"Agent Romanoff," said Phil, giving her a smile and a nod as she closed the door behind her. "I'd like to introduce you to the other members of Team Delta: Brock Rumlow, Jack Rollins, Maria Hill and Clint Barton."

Clint winked at her from the other side of the room, causing Natasha to roll her eyes with a small smile before she turned her attention to the other members of the team.

Natasha recognised Brock and Maria as the dark-haired agents she had fought during the physical assessment of her entrance exams when she had first joined SHIELD: Maria, slim and pale with bright blue eyes; Brock, darker and more muscular, with dark brown eyes.

Maria gave her a swift, easy smile, which Natasha returned. Brock's smile looked more like a grimace, and Natasha remembered with a stab of guilt how she had smashed him in the groin during the assessment. She gave him a tentative smile, not feeling too surprised when he grunted and turned away.

Jack Rollins was the only person who Natasha had not met before. He was tall and thickset, with dark brown hair and small, beady-looking green eyes. He remained silent and emotionless as Phil introduced him, simply staring at Natasha in a way that made her feel as though he was seeing straight through her. She tried not to blink as he stared her down, tilting her chin up defiantly.

"Everybody, this is Natasha Romanoff," said Phil, apparently oblivious to the grandstanding taking place between Natasha and Jack. "She was placed in Team Delta this morning."

"Welcome to the club," said Clint, giving her a bright grin before Phil shut him up with a stern look.

"Natasha, STRIKE teams are only pulled together for the toughest, most important international missions. You'll be called upon infrequently, but when you do receive a mission, then that mission becomes your top priority, understand?"

Natasha nodded.

"Were we just summoned here for a meet and greet?" said Jack, somehow sounding both irritated and sullen. "The email said it was important."

Phil's expression turned icy as he swivelled to look at Jack and sent him a fierce glare. Natasha found herself a little impressed at how intimidating Phil looked despite his small stature, his back straight and his chin jutting out. After a few long seconds, Jack ducked his head in submission under the pressure of Phil's gaze.

"Meeting your new team member  _is_ important," said Phil, still eyeing Jack coldly. "But yes, there's a mission that's just been called in too. A criminal gang in Ivory Coast has taken around 20 people hostage in a building in the coastal city of Abidjan. One of the hostages is an undercover SHIELD agent, Jasper Sitwell. It is your mission to secure the safe release of Agent Sitwell."

Natasha saw Brock and Jack exchange furtive looks at the mention of Agent Jasper Sitwell. Their eye contact lasted less than a second, but it was loaded with some strange emotion halfway between compassion and anxiety.

Before she had any time to ponder its meaning, however, the conversation around her swiftly moved on.

"What are our instructions regarding the hostage takers?" asked Clint.

"You have permission to use lethal force against the hostage takers, if necessary," said Phil, his expression grim. "You are authorised to do anything and everything to get Agent Sitwell out of that building safely."

Clint nodded curtly.

"Brock, Director Fury wants me to work on something here, so you're in charge for this operation," said Phil. "There's a super-sonic Quinjet prepped and ready for take-off outside. Flying at maximum speed, you should get there in just under 5 hours. Any questions from anybody?"

Everybody shook their heads.

"OK," said Phil. "Then get going. Agent Sitwell needs your help."

STRIKE Team Delta made their way to the Quinjet at a run.

 

* * *

 

Abidjan was not what you would call beautiful. A sprawling modern city, it was a mixture of skyscrapers and low-rise buildings, the quality of which got worse the further from the city centre you got. It was strangely ugly, as though the architects had been in a rush, striving for quantity and speed, rather than quality and aesthetic beauty.

Agent Sitwell and the other hostages were being held in a three-storey building towards the edge of the city. The local police had evacuated people from the surrounding blocks and formed a cordon around the area.

When STRIKE Team Delta arrived on the scene, Natasha quickly acted as a translator, using her French skills to converse with the local police chief and determine that the hostage takers had not cooperated with any attempt to communicate with the police negotiators.

"Did they give us any strategic intel?" asked Brock, once Natasha had brought the team up to date on the present situation.

"He said that the building where the hostages are being held shares an underground basement with the building across the street," said Natasha. "I think that's our best way in."

"OK," said Brock. "Let's go in via the basement. Rollins and Hill, I want you guys with me. The three of us will incapacitate the hostage takers and get Agent Sitwell outside safely. Barton and Romanoff, there are likely going to be other criminals in the building; I need you to take them out so that they don't get to us."

Natasha nodded, flicking the safety catch off her gun and clearing her mind of all thoughts unrelated to the mission.

"Everybody, follow me," ordered Brock. "Stay close."

Natasha broke into a run as Brock led the team down a parallel street that would give them access to the building on the other side of the road from where the hostages were being held. They were approaching this building from behind, so that the hostage takers would not be able to see them.

Their footfalls were almost silent as the five of them slipped through the deserted streets. From above, they looked like a tight swarm of ants, clad in black and dark khaki against the dusty paleness of the untarmacked road.

Brock led the way into the building, running into various rooms until he finally found the one with steps leading down to the cellar. He brought his fingers to his lips, signalling for them to stay quiet as they descended the steps; they had no idea if the hostage takers were aware their buildings shared a basement.

As they finally reached the bottom of the steps, Natasha blinked a couple of times, letting her eyes adjust to the low light levels. The basement was smelly and damp, the quiet dripping of water the only sound in the empty space. Brock held up a hand to signal for them to stay still and silent as he quickly surveyed the basement for threats.

After a long pause, his stance relaxed, and he gestured for them to follow him as he took a step forwards into the cellar. They moved forwards carefully, keeping silent as Brock led the way to the other side of the dark basement towards another set of steps that led up to the other building.

When they reached this second set of steps, Brock pulled out a piece of equipment from his trouser pocket. The others crowded around him, looking at the device's screen. It was some kind of radar system, mapping out the building above them. Natasha could see orange blobs moving around the virtual building, with the majority of them being clustered on the first floor.

"This is a heat map," whispered Maria, mainly for Natasha's benefit. "The orange blobs are people."

Natasha nodded, looking at how the blobs were distributed throughout the building.

"It looks like the hostages are being held here," said Brock, pointing to the middle floor, where the blobs were most concentrated on the screen. "Everyone else seems to be patrolling the floors above and below. Rollins and Hill, we're going to go to the middle floor via the back stairwell. We'll use gas in the vents to incapacitate the entire floor. It'll knock out the hostages too, but the gas isn't lethal, so we can just carry them out once the building's been cleared of all enemy agents. Barton and Romanoff, I want you to stop any of those people on the top or bottom floors from making it to the middle floor, got it?"

Natasha and Clint nodded, withdrawing their silenced guns from their holsters. Natasha took a long look at the screen, memorising the layout of the building. It was a fairly simple layout, with just one staircase at the back of the building.

Brock, Jack and Maria pulled on their gas masks.

Clint tugged at Natasha's sleeve, gesturing for her to follow him up the steps as the others finished securing the gas masks over their faces.

"I'll take the top floor, you take the bottom floor, OK?" murmured Clint. "We can't let anyone get to the middle floor. That's where most of the hostage takers are anyway, we don't want to let them have back-up."

Natasha nodded in understanding, watching as Clint disappeared up the staircase on his way to the top floor, followed shortly by the others.

She slipped into a room that was adjacent to the staircase, standing silently in the shadows with her gun drawn, waiting and listening hard for the tell-tale sound of footsteps approaching the staircase.

It did not take long for one of the hostage takers on patrol to reach her position. As soon as the man stepped in front of her doorway, Natasha fired, rushing forward to catch him before he hit the ground. She quickly dragged him into the room she was hiding in, dumping his body in the corner, out of sight.

"One down on the bottom floor," she whispered into the comms set that was strapped to her throat.

"Two down on the top floor," came Clint's hushed reply.

The next two hostage takers came by in quick succession. Natasha had to shoot fast so that neither of them had the chance to yell out a warning to their comrades.

Her concentration was razor sharp as she lay in wait for more hostage takers to pass by, ready to ambush them the second they appeared in her doorway.

"The gas is in the vents for the middle floor," Brock whispered over comms.

Natasha found herself holding her breath in anticipation, wondering how fast-acting the gas was and how quickly the hostages would be able to be released. She remembered the furtive look that Brock and Jack had exchanged when Phil had mentioned that Agent Jasper Sitwell was one of the hostages. She wondered if the men were friends.

The sharp crack of an unsilenced gun jerked her out of her thoughts.

Immediately, she heard footsteps thundering above her as Brock shouted down comms.

"Go in, go in, go in!" he roared. "They've noticed the gas."

Another burst of erratic gunfire rang out from the area the hostages were being held, followed by several more deliberate, precise gunshots that Natasha knew instinctively were being fired by Brock, Jack and Maria as they expertly took out the hostage takers.

From her own floor, Natasha could suddenly hear footsteps running towards the staircase as multiple hostage takers rushed to help their allies.

She waited until the last moment before jumping out from her position, firing off multiple shots in quick succession as the hostage takers rushed towards her position. They dropped instantly, their bodies hitting the concrete floor with heavy thuds as each of her bullets found their mark.

She lowered her gun, looking down at the pile of bodies surrounding her. It had been brutal, quick and efficient.

"All hostage takers neutralised on the bottom floor," she said, pressing her mic against her throat.

No sooner had the words left her mouth, however, that she heard one more set of footsteps approaching the corner.

She raised her gun, pointing it at head height and planting her feet firmly on the ground. The hostage taker came thundering around the corner at breakneck speed, crouched low so that Natasha's bullet sailed over his head and exploded the stone wall above him instead. Natasha's eyes widened as the man wrapped his arms around her waist and tackled her to the ground.

They hit the concrete floor with a thud, effectively knocking the breath out of her. Winded, Natasha gasped for air as she instinctively lashed out with all four limbs, thrashing around to ensure that the man could not get enough purchase to grab hold of her.

In the melee, Natasha managed to wrap her arms around the man's neck. Manoeuvring herself around so that she was crouched down on the ground, she channelled all her strength through her legs to stand up quickly, flipping the man over her shoulder and through the window behind her. The man's neck snapped under the weight of his body flipping over.

Suddenly, from outside, a hysterical scream pierced the thick, humid air.

Natasha's attention snapped to the source of the sound. She rushed to the window, drawing her weapon before slowly lowering it when she saw the sight before her eyes.

Outside, a middle-aged woman was screaming, tears streaming down her face as she stared, terrified, at something directly below the window. Natasha looked down, her eyes falling on the freshly-killed man's corpse. His neck was twisted at a grotesque angle, his eyes bulging and blank, his tongue sticking out of his thick lips.

Upon seeing Natasha, the woman turned on her heel and sprinted towards the police cordon, still screaming and sobbing hysterically.

Natasha stared after her. The woman was obviously distraught at having seen the man's corpse. She suddenly wondered if she should be having a similar reaction herself, if perhaps there was something fundamentally wrong with her to be so cool and indifferent about being literally surrounded by corpses.

The local woman had been crying hysterically, almost tripping up over herself in her rush to get away.

Natasha had not even broken a sweat.

_She had not even broken a sweat._

Before she could ruminate any further, however, Brock's voice sounded over comms.

"We've dealt with all the hostage takers," he said, sounding stressed. "But there's a bomb up here set to blow in 5 minutes."

Natasha was sprinting up the stairs before Brock had even finished his sentence.

She ran down the long corridor, bursting into the room where the hostages had been held.

The windows were thrown wide open, presumably to vent the gas that had previously filled the room.

Around 15 hostage takers were lying dead on the floor, surrounded by neat bloods of blood that looked like little red halos around their heads. The 20 hostages were slumped unconscious against the wall.

Natasha's eyes zeroed in on the bomb that appeared to be drilled into the floor. On it was a screen that displayed a timer that was counting down to zero.

04:31

"I'll defuse the bomb," she said, dropping to her knees in front of the device. "I studied bomb making at the Red Room Academy."

She did not mention that she had only studied bombs for one or two lessons at the age of 14, having chosen to specialise in hand-to-hand combat rather than weapon-making when she had been given the choice.

"OK, you do that," said Brock. "I saw a mattress in a skip outside. Maria, get outside and put the mattress below our window. Clint, Jack and I will throw down Agent Sitwell and the rest of the hostages. Maria, you need to drag them out of blast range of this building, get the local police to help you."

Maria nodded curtly, already rushing out of the room before Brock had finished issuing his instructions.

Natasha ran a nervous hand over the bomb, looking at its structure and the way the wires connected together with the explosive underneath. She bit her lip. She had never defused a bomb before, although she knew how it was done in theory.

She remembered that Elena had always preferred weapon-making and was taken by a sudden longing for her friend to be by her side now, to guide her through the complicated process of defusing the bomb. 

Shaking her head, she pushed all thoughts of Elena out of her mind, forcing herself to concentrate fully on the task at hand.

"I think I know how to defuse it," she murmured.

"You  _think_?" said Jack incredulously, his green eyes wide with horror as he rushed past with an unconscious hostage in his arms. "All our lives are on the line here."

Natasha tuned him out, ignoring the running footsteps of Brock, Jack and Clint as they picked up hostages and threw them, as gently as possible, out of the window onto the mattress below.

Her finger traced along the tangled mess of wires, her mind whirring as she groped through her past to try to solidify the memories from her bomb lessons.

02:00

"2 minutes," called out Natasha.

"I'm getting out of here," said Brock.

Natasha looked up, her eyebrows shooting up when she saw that there were still some unconscious hostages slumped against the wall.

Brock saw the question in her eyes and pressed his lips into a tight line.

"Agent Sitwell is safe," he snapped. "Our orders were to save  _him_. I'm not risking my lives for these locals."

Jack nodded in agreement, moving with Brock towards the door.

"Clint?" said Brock.

Clint hovered uncertainly, looking from the remaining hostages to Natasha.

"Do you think you can defuse that bomb?" he asked quietly, his blue eyes meeting her green ones seriously.

Natasha licked her lips, her throat suddenly dry. After a long moment, she nodded slowly.

Clint stared at her for a moment, before turning back to Brock and Jack, who were still standing in the doorway.

"I'm staying," he said, jutting out his jaw. "I'm getting the rest of the hostages out."

Brock and Jack gave him a quick nod, before slipping away down the corridor towards the stairwell.

"You can go too," said Natasha, reaching into her pocket to withdraw a small pair of shears. "You don't have to stay."

Clint picked up one of the hostages and made his way to the window, dropping the unconscious civilian down onto the mattress below.

"I trust you," he said, not bothering to glance over at her, too consumed by the task of picking up the next unconscious hostage. "I'm staying."

Natasha breathed deeply, surprised by how calm she was. When she reached into her psyche to try to find any form of emotion, she found herself touching only the smooth texture of marble.

"There's a chance I might be wrong about which wires to cut," she said. "I might detonate the bomb instead of defusing it. You don't have to stay."

Clint looked up at her sharply, his eyes hard and determined.

"I know," he said quietly. "I  _want_ to stay. I trust you."

Natasha nodded, obsessively tapping the wires as she went over her memories of the Red Room Academy bomb lesson one final time in her head.

She knew how to do it.

She was fairly certain.

80% certain.

But what about that 20%?

She swallowed, her hands shaking as she eyed the bomb's timer.

00:25

Gripping the wires tightly, she brought her shears to them and cut them, her mind so focused on the wires and their order that she momentarily felt blind to everything else, her world literally becoming one viewed through tunnel vision.

The timer sped down to zero.

Natasha's let out a cry of horror, her heart leaping to her mouth.

In front of her, Clint froze, too shocked, too terrified, to move.

_No!_

00:00

The numbers blinked up at them innocently, the deadly package remaining unexploded and silent.

Natasha let out a shaky laugh, suddenly feeling simultaneously lightheaded and buzzed all at once.

Clint wiped his brow with a shaking hand, a grin breaking out over his face as he dropped to his knees next to her and pulled her into a tight hug.

"You did it," he said, the relief evident in his voice. "You defused the bomb."

Natasha exhaled shakily, feeling almost euphoric as the heady mixture of adrenaline and relief rushed through her system.

She threw her head back and laughed.

This time, she was sweating.

 

* * *

 

STRIKE Team Delta were on the Quinjet, flying back to the US.

"How's Agent Sitwell?" asked Phil, his face filling the screen at the back of the plane where they were all gathered, with the exception of Jack, who was in the cockpit flying.

"He’s recovering from the effects of the gas," said Brock. "He's confused and disorientated, but that'll pass as soon as the drug leaves his system in around 24 hours."

"We freed all the other hostages too," said Clint. "There were no civilian casualties."

Phil nodded, looking obviously pleased with the news.

"It sounds like you did a great job, well done," said Phil, smiling down the camera. "I expect a full debrief once you're back. Until then, relax and get some rest. You deserve it."

The screen went black as Phil terminated the call.

Natasha kicked off her shoes and stretched, feeling a familiar ache in her muscles that indicated a good mission.

She was sat next to Clint, with Brock and Maria sat on the bench opposite, the four of them making a neat little square. She looked around at her teammates. They had worked well together, they had been a good team. They had completed the mission successfully, rescuing Agent Sitwell and the other hostages without a single civilian casualty. She smiled.

"Well done on defusing the bomb," said Brock, looking at her with an expression of surprise and respect. "You've got balls."

Maria rolled her eyes, smirking as she winked at Natasha.

"From my recollections of Natasha's physical assessment when she first joined SHIELD, I seem to remember balls being weak," said Maria.

The others laughed whilst Brock frowned, his tanned face flushing red.

"I think you're crazy for staying in there though, both of you," muttered Brock, his eyes flicking between Natasha and Clint.

At this, Clint frowned, tilting his chin up in a gesture Natasha had learnt meant that he was not pleased.

"I trust Natasha," he said coolly, his lips and jaw tight. "You should have trusted her too and stayed to save those civilians with me."

Brock threw up his hands, kicking off his shoes as he got to his feet with a grunt.

"The mission was to save Agent Sitwell," he snapped. "Excuse me for not wanting to get blown up by the team newbie. Now that she's proved that she's capable, I trust her judgement."

Without another word, he stormed off to the lower deck where the beds were located, sending a wave over his shoulder.

Maria laughed softly as he disappeared below deck.

"Savour it, that's the closest you'll get to an apology or a thank you," she said, shaking her head with a crooked smile. "He's grumpy, but he's a good guy really. He's a brilliant agent. He just has  _way_ too much testosterone."

Natasha laughed. She did not like Brock much as a person – he lacked the gentleness and the warmth that she loved so much in Clint and Laura and Phil – but she could see that he was a very capable man, and she respected him for it.

"Seriously though, well done you two," said Maria, reaching over to give her and Clint's hands a small squeeze. "Our orders were to save Agent Sitwell, we were under no obligation to save the others. You guys went above and beyond the call of duty to defuse the bomb and save the rest of the hostages."

Natasha ducked her head in embarrassment as she blushed.

"It was the right thing to do," she said. "It's no big deal."

Maria's eyes were wide as she shook her head.

"You're wrong," she said. "It's totally a big deal. I'm telling Agent Coulson and Director Fury about it as soon as we get back."

Natasha smiled, a warm fuzzy feeling settling in her chest as she let Maria's words sink in.

"I remember how against you joining SHIELD Director Fury was in the beginning," continued Maria, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

Natasha looked at her curiously, tilting her head to the side.

"What does Fury think of me now?" she asked.

Maria was silent for a moment as she considered it, her intelligent blue eyes sparkling as she thought.

"He respects you," she said finally. "He's said that he's glad that you're part of SHIELD."

Natasha sat quietly, letting herself truly understand the significance of this revelation. Director Fury had been dead set against her joining, so convinced had he been that she was a no-good KGB spy sent to disrupt SHIELD's activities. For him to have changed his opinion of her so completely made Natasha suddenly feel emotional.

"Does he trust me?" she asked.

Maria gave her a wry smile.

"He doesn't trust anybody," she said. "Not you, not me, not even Coulson. That's just the way he is."

Natasha nodded. She understood. For a long while, she had not trusted anyone either.

"I trust you though," said Maria, giving her a smile as she tucked a lock of dark brown hair behind her ear.

Natasha watched as the other woman stood up, stretching like a cat as she yawned.

"I'm going to get some sleep too," she said, giving Natasha and Clint a wave as she disappeared down the steps that Brock had descended earlier.

Once Maria's footsteps had faded away, Clint nudged Natasha as he gave her a conspiratorial wink.

"They're banging," he said.

Natasha's eyebrows shot up.

"Maria and Brock?"

Clint nodded.

"Just casually," he said. "Neither of them wants a relationship, but hey, they still have  _needs_."

He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, before dissolving into a fit of giggles that he would later claim were purely the result of the amount of stress he had been under during the day's mission.

Natasha was silent as she thought about Brock and Maria having casual sex. It was an interesting concept, in an academic, detached sort of way. She wondered what their bond was like, if it was different from platonic friends and couples in a romantic relationship.

"Hey Nat," said Clint, jerking her out of her thoughts.

He raised a hand, giving her a grin as he waited expectantly.

Natasha returned his high five, a bemused expression on her face.

"I prefer 'Natasha'," she reminded him.

"I know, Nat," winked Clint. "I just wanted to say, you did an awesome job for your first mission as a Level 7. You should be proud of yourself."

A smile slowly spread across her face as she turned her attention inwards and a small ball of some unfamiliar emotion in her chest. It took her a second to realise what it was, but as soon as she did, a spurt of happiness erupted inside herself.

Pride.

She was proud of what she had done; proud of the choices she had made. She was doing what she set out to achieve: making the world a safer place, saving innocent civilians, atoning her sins.

"I am proud," she said.

The word felt alien in her mouth, but she liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY: I am going on a 4-day holiday to Edinburgh with my best friend over the Easter holidays (woohoo). This means that the next chapter may be delayed slightly, sorry (boo). I will try to get it written and posted as soon as possible, but if it's slightly late, that's why! Please be patient with me :)
> 
> CANON: If you watch the scene when Phil calls Natasha at the beginning of Avengers, you will see that he's watching a screen showing her and Clint fighting. If you freeze the footage (or you're just super-fast at reading), you will see that on the footage it says "Abidjan Operation" and "STRIKE Team: Delta". So this chapter really does tie in with canon!
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "Captain America" and will introduce an important new character (no prizes for guessing who)!!! I'm SO excited for this next chapter, because from that chapter onwards, all the various storylines are going to finally start coming together in a gradual crescendo of awesomeness (hopefully). Also, CAPTAIN AMERICA!!! *swoons like Ant Man*
> 
> READERS: Hello, my loves <3 You've gone a bit quiet again, are you still there? Are you still enjoying the story? I love comments, so if you want to say something, please don't be shy, say hi :)


	26. Captain America

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some [chapter art](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/159723606321/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter-26) :)

2011 – Aged 27

 

* * *

 

Natasha lay back on her bed, enjoying the morning sunshine as it filtered in through the window and cast her in dappled green light from the tree outside.

She was dressed in jogging bottoms and a loose-fitting t-shirt, perfect clothing for a lazy Saturday morning. On her bedside table were an empty glass and a plate containing a couple of flakes of pastry, the only remains of her breakfast of croissants and orange juice.

Through the wall, she could hear Phil listening to some calm, gentle music in his room. The sound washed over her, vaguely trickling into the edges of her awareness as she concentrated on the pages in front of her.

She was reading a book that Laura had lent her. It was a book about mindfulness, which was a form of meditation that centred around the practice of being aware of the present moment. It was supposed to be good for improving mental health and emotional wellbeing.

At first, Natasha had been sceptical, but she had promised to read it nonetheless, to put Laura at ease, and she was finding that it was more interesting than she had first assumed it would be.

The house phone started ringing in the kitchen, a shrill sound that was perhaps Natasha's only gripe with the flat. She closed her eyes, smiling to herself when she heard Phil shuffling out of his room towards the kitchen to answer the call. It was probably just another sales call.

She reopened her eyes with a soft sigh of relief when Phil picked up the phone, cutting off the annoying, high-pitched ringing.

She turned her attention back to her book, licking her finger to turn the page, when suddenly she heard the sound of a plate smashing in the kitchen, followed by Phil's panicked yell.

Thoughts of Phil coming under attack flooded her mind, causing icy fear to shoot through her.

She jumped out of bed immediately, her hand plunging underneath her pillow to withdraw her gun. She flicked off the safety catch and ran down the short corridor towards the kitchen, her socked feet making no sound on the wooden floor.

She rounded the corner abruptly, her pistol up and her finger wrapped around the trigger, ready to take down whatever adversary had broken into their flat and accosted Phil in the kitchen.

She blinked in confusion, looking around wildly to see if she had suddenly gone selectively blind.

Apart from Phil, there was no one in the kitchen. He did not look injured in any visible way; there was no blood, no wounds, no obviously broken bones.

Her eyebrows drew tight in confusion as she took a step forward towards her friend.

Phil was clutching the phone tightly in his hand, his face as white as a sheet, as if he had seen a ghost. He was swaying alarmingly, as if he might faint, and Natasha hurried over to his side in concern in case he actually collapsed.

"Yes, sir," Phil said faintly down the phone. "Understood. I'll be on my way immediately."

He hung up, the handset slipping out of his fingers and clattering to the floor noisily.

Natasha dragged a chair over from the kitchen table and slid it next to Phil, pushing him down onto it firmly. She was alarmed by how pale he looked. Phil was mentally strong; she had seen him act calmly and professionally in situations of acute stress. To see him like this – so upset, so fragile-looking – scared her. She had never seen him look so shaken before in her life.

"What's wrong?" she asked, squatting down in front of him and looking him dead in the eye.

"Captain America."

It came out as barely more than a whisper, spoken reverently, almost like a prayer.

"Captain America?" repeated Natasha, confused.

She wondered if perhaps Phil was having some sort of mental breakdown, his mind making him focus on his idol rather than facing whatever had been spoken about on the phone.

"Captain America," Phil repeated weakly, his face now taking on a sweaty, blotchy pallor.

Natasha's mind desperately groped to find some logical explanation for his ramblings. There were Captain America posters and memorabilia all over Phil's room. She wondered suddenly if some of them were perhaps SHIELD gadgets disguised as little ornaments.

"Is 'Captain America' a code name for a mission?" she said. "Or a weapon?"

Phil withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead with it with a shaking hand. Natasha crossed over the kitchen and filled up a glass of water for him, pressing it gently into his hand and forcing him to drink before he replied.

"No," whispered Phil. "They've  _found him_. A Russian oil team stumbled upon his plane in the Arctic and informed the US government."

Natasha's eyes widened. She had heard stories about Captain America's fabled last mission, how he had ditched the plane carrying explosives into the Arctic rather than letting them be dropped on American soil. It had been the ultimate sacrifice, a selfless act that had catapulted him from being a piece of propaganda into a true hero. No one had been able to find the wreckage of the plane for the last 70 odd years – until now, it seemed.

"That was Director Fury on the phone," continued Phil numbly. "He's asked me to represent the US government to repatriate his body."

His eyes flicked up to glance at Natasha uncertainly. He looked so young, so  _lost_ , that it made Natasha's heart ache for him.

"Will you come with me?" said Phil, his voice hesitant. "It's not something I think I can do alone."

Natasha nodded, pulling him into a hug and rubbing his back gently as he shook and sobbed quietly into her shoulder. Phil clung to her, his tears quickly soaking through the fabric of her t-shirt, but Natasha did not mind, simply holding him patiently and letting him cry as she gently stroked his hair.

Captain America was Phil's hero. It was going to be difficult for him to have to bring his body home. Natasha tightened her grip around him protectively, as if the action might help her to shield him from the huge emotional hurt that was unavoidably heading his way.

"Of course," she said.

 

* * *

 

The flight in the Quinjet was a quiet one.

Phil, Natasha and two other SHIELD agents who Natasha had not met before were sat in silence in the back of the plane.

Phil was sat next to the window, his forehead resting against the pane of plexiglass, his gaze distant and forlorn as he stared down at the clouds below. He was chewing his lip nervously, his fingers fidgeting in his lap as a worried frown tugged at his eyebrows.

Natasha watched his obvious discomfort with unease.

She questioned silently whether Director Fury had made the best decision in sending Phil to do this job. Phil idolised Captain America, loved him and looked up to him, regarded him as a hero and a personal inspiration. To have to be faced with his body, to have to be faced with the very real evidence of his hero's mortality, would be heartbreakingly, terribly difficult.

Her mind slipped, unbidden, to thoughts of James and Elena. She pondered how she would feel if she were told that there was the opportunity to find and lay their bodies to rest. The more she thought about it, the more she realised that she would not want anyone else to do it but her.

Such tasks should be undertaken by those closest to the deceased, and as Captain America did not have any living relatives, she supposed Phil was the next best person.

She just hoped he would be strong enough to handle it.

Phil let out a soft sigh against the window, his breath fogging up the plexiglass, and Natasha ached to reach out and take the hurt away.

She bit her lip, struggling to find the right words that would adequately convey what she wanted to say. There did not seem to be words big enough to carry the weight of importance that grief and love held.

"We'll make sure that he's moved with the respect he deserves," she said quietly, after a long while. "It's a privilege to be able to repatriate him and bring him home."

Phil looked up from the window to turn towards her, his expression dazed as he reached out blindly to grasp her hand.

Natasha took it gently, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand as Phil turned back to stare out of the window.

She wondered how badly decomposed the body would be. On the one hand, he had been dead for around 70 years, but on the other, he had been encased in snow and ice in the Arctic. She supposed that so long as polar bears had not managed to get to him, there would probably still be ample flesh left on the bones.

She winced internally, her worried gaze falling on Phil as he stared blankly out of the window. A ribbon of anxiety unfurled in her chest as she pondered whether or not he would be able to cope with it.

As she watched, a silent tear rolled down his cheek.

 

* * *

 

They landed a few hours later.

They wrapped themselves up warmly in SHIELD-issue coats, hats, scarves and gloves especially created for extremely cold environments.

As Natasha wound her scarf around her neck, she cast a surreptitious glance in Phil's direction, noting the way he moved in a slow, almost robotic way. His eyes were dull and blank, as if he were holding back the pain, like he knew that if he let himself feel even an ounce of emotion, he would be overwhelmed by it.

It was a look that she recognised well; she wore it herself when she turned her mind to marble. It was a good short-term coping mechanism for scenarios involving acute stress, although it was far from healthy if implemented in the long-term.

Once Phil had finally managed to finish getting dressed for the Arctic temperatures, the back of the Quinjet lowered slowly. An icy blast of freezing air filled the plane immediately, causing Natasha to wrap her arms around herself in an attempt to stop her body heat from escaping.

She buried her nose in the wool of her scarf, ducking her head down against the Arctic wind as they descended down the ramp onto the frozen wasteland. The group huddled tightly together, squinting through the blizzard to try to make out any landmarks or features.

As she watched, she could slowly make out two dark figures walking towards them through the snow. As they drew closer, they waved at their group, relieved expressions on their faces.

"Hello, are you the US government?" asked one of the men, in a thick Russian accent.

Phil nodded, taking the lead as his professional mask slid down.

"Yes," he said. "Are you the guys who found the plane?"

The Russians nodded, turning around to lead the way to the crash site. They walked through the wind and snow in silence, sadness and tension heavy in the air as they made their way to the sombre find.

As they drew closer, the shape of the plane loomed out of the grey haze of the blizzard. It was jutting out of the ice at an angle, part of it still submerged beneath the snow and ice.

Seeing the way the snow drifted around the shape, Natasha could suddenly understand why it had taken so long for the plane to be found. Covered in snow, the shape would be completely invisible, just yet another shape in the bumpy Arctic landscape.

They finally reached the plane, the shape towering over them, much larger than Natasha had expected. She could hear the sound of the metal creaking and groaning in the ice, a deep, reverberating noise that somehow sounded sad and lonely above the whistling of the wind.

"The plane has been secured," said another member of the Russian oil team. "It is safe to enter."

Phil nodded politely, dismissing them with a wave. The Russians hurried away, clearly glad to be able to leave the scene and get somewhere warmer.

Natasha watched them go, her eyes watering in the cold wind.

The two SHIELD agents whose names Natasha did not know led the way up the sloping side of the plane, setting up a large piece of equipment. It looked like a stand of some sort, with a central arm jutting out in the middle. When one of the agents turned it on, a blue laser shot out of the bottom of the arm and it began revolving, instantly melting the snow and ice and starting to cut a perfect circle into the metal of the plane.

They stood in silence as the machine did its work, carving its way through the metal using the concentrated power of the intense heat emitted by the laser. Impressive though the machine was, however, it still had to cut through the thick side of the old plane, so it was a good ten minutes before the laser finished its job.

Natasha jumped as the revolving arm of the laser suddenly stopped moving and the circle of metal that it had been cutting though fell away as it dropped down into the depths of the plane.

She saw Phil tense beside her, his lips forming a thin line as his nostrils flared and his eyes widened momentarily with emotion.

Leaning in close so that the other two agents would not hear, Natasha briefly pushed his hat up off his ear so that he could hear her clearly.

"Are you OK?" she muttered. "If it's too much, you can go back to the Quinjet."

Phil shook his head immediately, clenching his fists as his eyes hardened with steely resolve.

"I'm going in," he said, looking at her hard as if challenging her to say otherwise.

Natasha met his gaze and nodded, letting him know that she respected his decision.

"Let's go," said Phil, reaching into his bag to pull out several harnesses and passing them around. "Everyone, put these on and attach the ends to the arm of the cutting machine. It's designed to hold the weight of ten men, so unless you all had huge breakfasts, I think we're good."

Natasha hid her surprise as she secured the harness around her chest, waist and thighs. Phil did not usually crack jokes at work. It must be the stress, she realised, her heart giving a painful pang as it hit her anew how difficult this must be for Phil.

She did not comment on the out-of-place joke, instead wordlessly attaching the end of the winch onto the arm of the cutting machine as Phil had instructed.

Once all four of them had finished putting on their harnesses and attaching themselves to the cutting machine, Natasha's eyes flicked to Phil once more. He looked calm, but Natasha could tell by the tightness of his jaw how much tension resided just below the surface. She kept her face impassive as she watched him, knowing that he would hate to see her looking at him with pity.

"Come down one at a time," said Phil. "Flashlights on."

Without any other preamble, he hopped down into the hole, quickly descending into the depths of the plane as he winched himself down. Once Natasha heard his feet hit the bottom, she followed, ignoring the instinctive jump that her stomach gave when she first stepped out into nothing.

She descended quickly, reaching the bottom in no time at all. Once her feet hit solid ground once more, she unhooked herself from the winch, stepping out of the way so that the next agent could descend safely.

She turned on her flashlight, the beam of light illuminating the dark interior of the plane. It was very different from normal planes, with a wide open cockpit taking up the entire front half of the plane. The entire interior was covered in glittering ice, giving Natasha the impression of being inside a large, high-ceilinged ice cave.

Behind her, the two other SHIELD agents touched down inside the plane, carrying large portable lights with them that could be set up to be freestanding, so that they would not have to rely on their flashlights.

"Over here," called Phil, his voice tight.

Natasha crossed the cockpit to where he was standing, at the front of the plane. This area of the plane was coated in an especially thick block of ice, as if water had started to leak in from the bottom of the plane and then frozen solid.

Natasha's breath caught in her throat as she caught a glimpse of red and blue underneath the rough ice. She leaned forward, brushing the top layer of fine ice crystals away to reveal the clear shape of Captain America's shield. Underneath the shield was the unmistakable outline of a man.

She pulled back, suddenly unable to look any longer, feeling as if she were intruding on something that she had no right to see. This plane was Steve Rogers' final resting place. It was right to get him out and bring him back to the US, of course, but it felt as if they were invading his privacy by being here.

She looked up at Phil, seeing the way his chest was rising and falling rapidly as he stared down at his idol. His eyes were wide and glistening, his throat clenched up so tight that Natasha could actually see the tendons straining in his neck. Wordlessly, she walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

Phil leaned in to the touch, letting out a long exhale that came out as fog in the freezing air.

The two other SHIELD agents came over, setting up the lights to illuminate the area where Steve Rogers was encased in the ice. Natasha watched as they moved slowly, obviously trying to do this in the quietest and most respectful way possible.

Once the lights were properly set up, they brought out batons that looked similar to those that Brock sometimes used on missions. Natasha took a step back. If they were the same kind of baton that she had seen Brock use, then they would emit intense heat.

They each pressed a button on the bottom of their batons, and Natasha watched as they sparked to life and started emitting heat. The two agents placed the batons over the ice, moving them in slow, sweeping movements.

At first, nothing seemed to happen, but after a while Natasha became aware of the faint sound of trickling water as the thick ice slowly began to melt.

Phil drifted forward to stand next to the block of ice, his eyes wide and glassy as if in a daze. He stared down at the ice, a pained smile on his face.

As the minutes passed, the trickle of water gradually became louder as the ice melted faster.

"Turn the settings down," Phil blurted out suddenly. "Don't burn him."

He placed his hands protectively on the block of ice, leaning over it slightly as if it would protect Steve Rogers from the heat of the blazing batons.

The agents wielding the batons nodded respectfully, changing the settings on their batons so that the burning heat that Natasha had felt earlier dimmed to just a gentle warmness. They returned their attention to the task, progress going a lot slower now that the temperature of the batons had been reduced so drastically.

As Natasha watched, Steve Rogers' head slowly emerged from the ice. It was like watching him being born, Natasha thought, a pang of sadness going through her as the young man's face slowly came into view.

He had not decomposed at all, looking just as whole and pristine as he must have done when he had gone into the ice.

He looked as though he was sleeping.

Tenderly, Phil reached forward to touch his face. A small whimper escaped his lips as his fingers made contact with frozen blonde hair. Very gently, he stroked the young man's cheek.

"Don't worry, you're coming home soon," he said quietly, his voice soft and heartbreaking in its sadness. "You've waited so long, been so patient. Welcome back to the world, Captain."

Natasha's vision blurred with tears as she listened to Phil speak. Hearing the devastation in his gentle voice was for more affecting than she had expected. For her own sake, she ran through her ballet routine in her head, letting her mind slip ever so slightly into its more marble state. Phil needed her to be strong.

The batons were still doing their work, melting the ice over his chest now; the iconic red, white and blue shield coming into view.

Phil choked out a sob, immediately biting down on his lip to stop himself from crying. Natasha's hand shot out, reaching out to hold the hand what was not gently stroking Steve's hair.

"Do you think he knew he was going to die, when he went into the ice?" he whispered, his voice raw and rough.

Natasha considered it. She remembered the cold iciness of the landscape, the way the wind had penetrated her even through her thick winter clothes. No one could survive that, she realised. It would take a miracle to survive the crash itself, let alone the freezing temperatures that followed. To survive that, you would have to be some kind of super-human.

"Yeah, I think he knew," she said softly. "It was his choice. He was a hero. He  _is_ a hero."

Phil sniffled as he bent down to kneel next to Steve's body, his hand still gently stroking his cheek. He looked like a parent knelt next to their child's bed as they slept, except this bed was made of ice and Steve's sleep was much more permanent.

Natasha watched them sadly, a melancholy feeling settling in her chest.

_Hang on. What on earth...?_

She blinked, shaking her head as she looked again at the sight in front of her.

It must have been an illusion, a trick of the light, but just a moment ago she could have sworn that she saw a small puff of air coming out of Steve Rogers' mouth, a tiny puff of steam in the frigid air.

She stared hard at his mouth, frowning in concentration.

Phil was knelt right next to him. The logical explanation, of course, was that it had been Phil's breath that she had seen, an unseen air current pushing it over Steve's mouth.

And yet, she had been so sure... For a brief moment, it had looked just like the Captain had exhaled by himself.

She kept watching carefully, her eyes fixed on the spot above Steve's mouth.

For a couple more minutes, there was nothing, and then, all of a sudden, there it was again, that tiny puff of air in front of his face.

"Everybody step back," she said sharply.

The others looked up in surprise, following her instructions nonetheless.

"Why?" asked Phil, his brow pulled down in a puzzled frown.

Natasha took a deep breath, steadying herself to speak, knowing that what she said next was going to sound crazy.

"I thought I saw him breathing," she said calmly, ignoring the looks of shocked scepticism that met her words. "It could have been Agent Coulson's breath though, because he was knelt so close by."

They all backed away from Steve by another couple of metres, putting enough distance between the frozen man and themselves to be sure that none of their breath would inadvertently appear above his mouth.

They waited for what felt like an age, the seconds morphing into minutes as time trickled by like the water dripping off the ice.

Natasha was just about to give up, to admit that she was wrong and that the breath must have been coming from Phil after all, when they all saw it.

A single puff of air; a little tendril of steam that was most definitely coming from Steve Rogers' mouth.

For a split second, they all stood in shocked silence, looking frantically between one another and the frozen man lying in the middle of them.

Then, one of the SHIELD agents whom Natasha did not know let out a loud exclamation, breaking the spell.

"My God, this guy's still alive!"

The words spurred everyone into action, the urgency of the mission kicking up several notches as they all realised that they were now not dealing with repatriating a dead body, but with saving a living man's life.

"Matthews, Abbot, run back to the Quinjet and bring a stretcher and a first aid kit back here, now!" ordered Phil, snatching the batons out of the agents' hands before they ran off immediately to follow his instructions. "Natasha, we've got to get him out of this ice ASAP."

They got to work, turning up the settings on the batons as high as they dared as they frantically worked to get Steve out of his prison of ice. With the increased heat settings, the rest of the ice melted quickly.

They used their hands to tear away the last fragments of ice from his body just as Matthews and Abbott returned with the stretcher and medical kit.

"Natasha, have you passed your Quinjet flight exams?" demanded Phil.

Natasha nodded immediately.

"I passed last month, sir," she said.

"Run back to the Quinjet, bring it as close to this plane as you dare, and prepare for take-off," said Phil. "Call Director Fury, ask him what we should do. We need to take Captain Rogers somewhere with the medical facilities to deal with his needs – physical and mental."

Natasha nodded, squeezing past Matthews and Abbott as they rushed back to Steve's side to get him onto the stretcher.

She ran to where the winches were dangling from the hole in the roof, attaching her harness as quickly as possible and hauling herself up in seconds. As she emerged from the hole, the first blast of the Arctic wind made her eyes water, but she blinked away the tears and sprinted in the direction of the Quinjet.

It was impossible to see it in the snowstorm, but the Red Room Academy had trained her well to cope with visually-compromised environments. Her aim was true; in less than a minute, the shape of the Quinjet came looming out of the blizzard.

The ramp lowered automatically as she approached, its cameras recognising her face and cross-referencing it with its list of agents.

She ran into the Quinjet before the ramp had even had the chance to lower itself fully onto the frozen ground, bounding to the cockpit and taking the controls without bothering to strap herself in using the seatbelt.

She started up the engines, turning the Quinjet on the spot and taxiing it slowly in the direction her senses told her the stricken plane was located.

As she directed the Quinjet, she turned on the communicator.

"Call Director Fury," she said. "Priority one."

The sound of a phone ringing played through the speakers embedded in the cockpit. It took only two rings for Director Fury to pick up.

"Fury," he grunted, by way of announcement.

"This is Agent Romanoff, sir," said Natasha. "We have an urgent situation and need immediate instructions. Captain America is alive."

In all credit to Director Fury, he digested the news much better than most people would have done. That is to say, he overcame his initial stunned silence in just 9 seconds and let out a string of swear words for only an additional 7 seconds after that.

Once those stressful first 16 seconds were over, he cleared his throat before his voice barked down the phone, as authoritative and in-control as ever.

"What signs of life is Captain Rogers displaying?" he said.

"Breathing, sir," said Natasha. "Currently, his breaths are extremely spaced out but regular."

Natasha heard Director Fury typing furiously in the background before he finally spoke after around a minute.

"New York," he said. "I'm sending you the coordinates now. Fly as fast as you can. The Quinjet's medical supplies are not equipped for a case like this. We need to get him to SHIELD's New York specialist medical facility as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir," said Natasha, seeing the coordinates flash up on her screen a moment later, before Director Fury terminated the call, presumably to get SHIELD's best and brightest doctors directed to New York.

Behind her, she heard commotion as Phil, Matthews and Abbott came running up the ramp of the Quinjet, Steve Rogers still and quiet on the stretcher between them.

"Where are we going?" Phil asked immediately, an almost manic look of concentration on his face.

"New York," said Natasha, pressing the button to pull up the ramp and restart the engines.

"Fly," said Phil.

Natasha did not need telling twice.

 

* * *

 

"Wow."

"I know."

" _Wow!_ "

"I  _know_ , Clint," sighed Natasha.

It was one week on from Steve Rogers' miraculous discovery and rescue from the ice, and Natasha was sat with Clint and Laura in the cosy kitchen of their farmhouse, her hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee.

Her overnight bag was sat on the bed in the guest bedroom upstairs; she was staying with them for an extended weekend break.

Rumours of Captain America's current status as  _alive_ had spread like wildfire throughout SHIELD within hours of them touching down in New York.

It had reached such a point that, earlier in the week, Director Fury had had to send out an organisation-wide memo informing all personnel that gossiping was strictly forbidden.

A few days after that, he had called a press conference and confirmed that, yes, Captain America was very much alive and awake.

"I can't believe he's still alive," said Clint, letting out an impressed whistle.

He had heard the news before, of course, but he seemed to have been waiting for this weekend so that Natasha to confirm it personally before truly embracing the knowledge.

"Believe it," said Natasha, taking a sip of her coffee. "I saw him breathing with my own two eyes."

Clint's eyes widened, his jaw dropping open slightly as he whispered that was presumably another  _wow_ at the revelation.

"I saw Director Fury's press conference," said Laura. "I also heard that Rogers woke up in New York a few days ago and ran out of the building straight into Times Square. Is that true?"

Natasha shrugged, gazing at one of the dream catchers hanging from the ceiling. It looked handmade, old and rustic, like most things in the farmhouse.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I guess so. I don't see why anyone would make a detail like that up."

Laura shook her head, a horrified expression on her face.

"Holy shit, that poor man," said Laura, her eyes wide with genuine distress. "Times Square is lit up like a Christmas tree 24/7. Can you imagine how shocking and disorientating that must be, to find yourself thrown into a world you don't know?! The guy came from the  _1940s_."

Natasha sat quietly, her heart rate speeding up as she remembered how confusing and overwhelming it has been when she had first come to the US after Clint had saved her from Sao Paulo and she had left the KGB.

"I can imagine it, yeah," she said.

Laura blushed as she shot an apologetic look at Natasha, reaching out over the table to give her hand a little squeeze. Abashed remorse was written plain across her face.

"Sorry," said Laura. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Natasha gave her a small smile, letting her know that no harm was done.

"I'm just amazed he's still alive after all those decades in the ice," said Clint. "What's going to happen to the poor bastard now?"

Natasha shrugged, sighing as she took another sip of her coffee.

"I don't know," she said. "Fury sent me and Phil home the moment we'd dropped off the Captain at the New York medical facility. He said there was nothing else we could do, and that the doctors would be taking care of him from then on. We've not heard anything else about it since then, apart from what's been on the news. Phil's been going crazy back at the apartment, checking news websites 24/7 and being snappish – that's partly why I asked if I could come over to stay with you guys this weekend."

She gave Clint and Laura a sheepish smile, relieved to see understanding smiles being reflected back at her.

"Yeah, it must be tough for poor Phil, I can see why you'd want to get away and give him space," said Laura. "What's the other reason?"

Natasha drained the last of her coffee and leaned back with a sigh.

"To see you guys, of course," she said. "This last week's been overwhelming. I just wanted forget about it for a while and spend some time with you both."

Laura walked around the table and wrapped her arms around Natasha. Clint joined them a second later, hugging her gently before suddenly rubbing a hand in Natasha's hair vigorously, messing it up into a bird's nest of wild red curls.

Natasha glared at him before jabbing him in the sides, finding his ticklish spots immediately.

The tense, serious atmosphere melted away as their play fight got steadily more enthusiastic.

The sound of their laughter echoed around the room as the three of them goofed around, filling the house with the sounds of a happy family.

 

* * *

 

It was around two weeks later when Natasha received an email from Director Fury.

She was at the SHIELD training facility when the email came through, having just finished a sparring session with Maria.

She was pulling on the last of her clothes when her phone chimed. She tapped on the screen, her heart rate skyrocketing as she read the subject line.

 **To:**  Romanoff, Natasha A.

 **From:**  Fury, Nicholas J.

 **Subject:** [TOP SECRET] New mission – Project Patriot

Clicking on the notification to open the message, she cast a furtive look around her, making sure that no one was near enough to read over her shoulder.

_Natasha,_

_Please report to my office immediately._

_Nick_

Natasha stared at the message, unsure whether she was more shocked by the fact she had just received a message from the Director of SHIELD himself, the mysterious contents of the message, or the fact that the Director had referred to them by their first names as if they were friends, not colleagues who had only met a handful of times.

Shaking her head, she pushed her phone back into her pocket and strolled out of the changing room as casually as she could. The message had not specified that she was to go to his office unseen, but the fact that the subject line was preceded by the words 'top secret' made her want to err on the side of caution and attract as little attention as possible.

She pressed the button for the lift, smiling politely at another agent who was also waiting, and schooled her features into a mask of calmness.

The lift arrived. Natasha and the other agent stepped in. Natasha allowed the other agent to press his button before pressing her own. She deliberately chose a floor several floors below Director Fury's office, not wanting her destination to be obvious.

A few minutes later, she was sneaking up the back staircase towards the top floor, where Director Fury's office was located. She quickly navigated her way to the correct room, breathing a sigh of relief when she finally knocked on the wooden door without having run into any other agents.

"Come in!" called Director Fury.

Natasha entered the room, closing the door behind her before turning around to face Director Fury.

His office was large and open plan, the entire back wall actually being a window that looked to the outside, giving a spectacular panoramic view. Director Fury himself was stood behind his desk, his hands clasped behind his back and his one good eye looking at her sharply.

Natasha approached him, shaking his hand before they both took their seats on either side of his desk.

"Thank you for coming at such short notice," said Director Fury. "Did anyone see you come up here?"

Natasha shook her head, her sense of curiosity growing with every passing second.

"No, sir," she said. "I made sure of it."

Director Fury nodded to himself, looking pleased, a small smile curving his lips.

"Good," he said. "I'd like to give you a new mission: code name Project Patriot. For this mission only, if you choose to take it on,  _I_  will be your direct superior officer, not Agent Coulson."

Natasha's eyebrows shot up. With the exception of STRIKE missions, where Brock Rumlow was typically the tactical lead, Phil was her usual superior officer. She wondered what was going on that required Phil to be kept out of the loop.

"What's Project Patriot?" she asked, instead.

"You are, of course, aware that Captain Rogers is awake?" said Director Fury.

Natasha nodded.

"Yes, sir," she said. "I've been keeping an eye on the press releases regarding his progress."

Director Fury grunted.

"There aren't going to be many more press reports about Captain Rogers from now on," he said. "We took out a superinjunction this morning, banning all media outlets from reporting on his personal life and current circumstances."

Natasha leant forward in her seat, resisting the urge to bounce despite the fact she felt as though she might actually burst with curiosity.

"Why is that, sir?" she asked.

"This morning, Captain Rogers was discharged from the medical facility," said Director Fury. "As of now, he's living as a civilian in New York. He has been given accommodation in Brooklyn by the US government, and paid a Captain's salary by the US Army, backdated to when he went into the ice; he's not going to struggle financially. Mentally though, that's another issue."

Natasha nodded, slowly beginning to understand where this conversation might be going.

"I assume Project Patriot refers to Captain Rogers?" she said.

Director Fury nodded.

"The mission goal of Project Patriot is reintegrating Captain Rogers into modern society," he explained. "I would like you to be the agent on this job. You'll be given an apartment in the same apartment block as Captain Rogers, rent-free, as well as a temporary reprieve from all STRIKE Team Delta missions."

Natasha sat in stunned silence.

Captain America was an international hero, someone who had quite literally been ready to die for his country. He was regarded as one of the bravest, most selfless soldiers to have ever lived, and Director Fury was asking  _her_ to help reintegrate  _him_ back into society.

She was just an ex-KGB spy, raised from birth to be the perfect, deadly espionage machine.

She did not feel worthy of breathing the same air as the Captain, let alone being the one responsible for introducing him to the modern age.

She cleared her throat uncomfortably, suddenly aware that Director Fury was staring at her intently, waiting for her to speak.

"I... I don't know if I'm the most suitable person for the job," she said. "I'm a spy. I'm not much of a people person."

Director Fury shook his head impatiently, as if Natasha was missing some important point.

"Project Patriot doesn't require a 'people person'," he said firmly, as if the concept personally affronted him. "It requires someone who knows first-hand what it's like to adjust from one society to another. You adjusted from life trapped by the KGB to life as a free woman in the US. I believe you're uniquely qualified for this job."

Natasha swallowed thickly behind a sudden lump in her throat. Director Fury had never before acknowledged the hardships she had endured at the hands of the Red Room Academy and the KGB. He had never before praised her on her adjustment to free life.

And for some reason, even though the two of them had rarely exchanged words over the years, it meant a lot to Natasha to have this acknowledgement from him, the man who had been so set against her joining SHIELD when she had first applied. She felt validated and respected, and to be trusted with this mission meant a lot, as Director Fury was the man who trusted no one.

"Why can't Agent Coulson know about this mission?" she said.

Director Fury flashed her a grim smile.

"You live with the guy," he said. "I'm sure it's not escaped your notice how much of a fan he is of Captain Rogers. I want to keep Agent Coulson out of this to keep him focused. If he knew about the mission, he'd get distracted, and right now I need his head in the game."

Natasha bit her lip.

"Are you asking me to lie to Phil?" she said.

"Yes," said Director Fury.

"He's my friend."

"Yes," repeated Director Fury. "I know."

He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and handed it to her. On it were two addresses, both within the same apartment block. Next to the first address were the initials SR. Beside the second address were Natasha's own initials, NR. It was this second address that he tapped with one thick dark finger.

"Noon, tomorrow," he said simply. "Be there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDINBURGH: Thank you to everyone on here and Tumblr who wished me a pleasant trip to Edinburgh. I had a lovely time :)
> 
> DIVERGENCE FROM CANON: Fearless has now started diverging slightly from canon. (Actually, I guess it started diverging from canon as soon as I ignored the Iron Man films, but it's going to start actively diverging a bit *more* now.)
> 
> STEVE ROGERS: Any Steve Rogers fans reading this? ;) Feel free to scream at me in the comments!
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "The Man Out Of Time" and will feature a whole load of fluff and angst involving Natasha helping Steve adjust to the modern age. Steve has been plucked from his own time and dumped straight into the future, so it's going to be super-tough for him. Luckily, Natasha is well-experienced in adjusting from one world to another. If you're a (platonic) Romanogers fan, then I think you'll enjoy the next chapter :)
> 
> THANK YOU: A big thank you to everyone who is leaving such wonderful comments. There's nothing more wonderful and encouraging as a writer to wake up to an inbox full of comments, squees and feedback <3


	27. The Man Out Of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feast your eyes on some [chapter art](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/160114335261/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter) :)

2011 – Aged 27

 

* * *

 

Natasha arrived at the address at exactly noon the following day.

She raised her hand to knock on the door, only for the door to swing open before her knuckles even made contact with the polished wood.

Director Fury was stood in front of her, dressed as ever in his long black leather jacket and dark suit. He stood back, letting Natasha walk past him into the flat as he held the door open.

"You came," he said evenly. "You never said yesterday whether you wanted to take on this mission or not. I wasn't sure if you'd turn up."

Natasha met his gaze as she passed him, her green eyes meeting his deep brown one, the other hidden behind his eyepatch.

He was curiously hard to read. Usually, from a glance, Natasha could tell a person's mood, intentions, level of concentration, whatever – but with Director Fury she got nothing. She suddenly realised she was standing with a master spy. She had known this already, of course, but now she felt she was truly starting to understand just how good he was.

"This is your apartment for the duration of the mission," continued Director Fury, seemingly unfazed by her lack of response to his initial comments.

Natasha kept quiet as she glanced around the room. They were in a classy, open-plan living space that seemed to be a living room as well as a kitchen and dining room combined. She could see several doors in the hallway that ran alongside the space, which presumably led to the bedroom and bathroom.

The flat was furnished with tasteful, modest furniture; the decor a mixture of dark mahogany wood and neutral colours on the walls and floor. Out of the tall windows, she could see the New York skyline.

She was in Brooklyn, to be precise, in the same block of flats as Steve Rogers, who was no doubt holing himself away from the modern world if his psychological reports from the hospital were anything to go by.

"I'm potentially on board with the mission," she said, her tone letting Director Fury know that she was not yet entirely convinced. "But I have a few questions first."

Director Fury spread his arms open wide, a display of openness that Natasha knew was almost entirely for show.

"Ask whatever you like," he said.

Natasha turned towards him, chewing her lip as she thought through the points she did not quite yet understand.

"Why is SHIELD so interested in Captain Rogers' reintegration into society?" she said eventually. "Shouldn't that be a job for social services or the Veterans Association?"

Director Fury was silent for a long time, as if he were having an internal battle about whether or not to answer her question. Natasha did not move, waiting patiently for him to speak, and eventually he sighed, apparently deciding that she had a right to know.

"One day, if there's some kind of major emergency, SHIELD might need Captain Rogers' help," he said. "He's the best soldier the US Army’s ever had, and biologically he's not aged a day since he went into the ice. He's still just as good a soldier now as he was in the 1940s and if there comes a day when we need him to fight for us, then we need him to be psychologically ready too. The best super-soldier in all of history is no good to us if he's freaking out at every piece of modern technology or refusing to come out of his apartment at all."

Natasha nodded slowly, a frown spreading across her face.

"You want to use him," she said. "You want to use him as SHIELD's ace in the hole."

Director Fury shrugged, not bothering to deny it.

"The world's a dangerous place," he said. "Steve Rogers is a guy who's always wanted to do the right thing and save the innocent. We just want him to be ready to step up and help,  _if_ such a scenario arises and  _if_ he wants to get involved."

Natasha was silent as she let this stew in her mind.

"Why me?" she asked, after a long while.

Director Fury's expression softened.

"Like I said yesterday, you understand the struggle of starting off in a strange new world," he said. "You were alone. You were lost. And look at you now."

Natasha fidgeted uncomfortably.

"I wasn't alone," she said. "I had the Bartons."

Director Fury's lips curved into a gentle smile, and it was then that Natasha realised he had painted her into a corner she had not even realised she was backing herself into.

"Exactly," he said. "You weren't alone. I'm asking you to be the person who's going to make sure that Steve Rogers doesn't have to go through this alone either."

Natasha remembered how frightening and overwhelming it had been when she had first come to the US after leaving the KGB. She remembered how lonely she had felt sometimes, despite Clint and Laura's best efforts. She remembered the feeling of being an outsider, like she did not belong, like she was in an alien world that did not make sense.

No one should have to feel like that, she decided.

No one should have to go through that alone.

 

* * *

 

It was the following day when she finally plucked up the courage to walk up the two flights of stairs within the apartment block and knock on Steve Rogers' front door.

The previous evening, she had called Phil, explaining that she had to temporarily move out of their shared flat to go on a classified mission. After reassuring him that she would look after herself and stay safe, she had got started on unpacking.

Director Fury had apparently snuck into her and Phil's flat and liberated Natasha's possessions prior to meeting her here. Quite how he managed it in the tight timeframe and without Phil noticing, Natasha was not sure, but she was rapidly learning not to underestimate the Director's capabilities.

And so she had spent the evening unpacking her possessions from the boxes that Director Fury had at least had the decency to pack neatly, working methodically until her new flat started to look more like a home.

That had been the previous day.

This morning, she had gone to the supermarket to stock up the fridge and kitchen cupboards, but that task was completed by 11am. By the time it was noon, she had cleaned the entire flat and had some lunch, and then there really was not anything she could do to put off the inevitable.

She was not sure why she felt so nervous about walking up two flights of stairs and introducing herself to the Captain. She was not Phil – she was not a  _fan_ – although she obviously held a healthy dose of respect for him. She tried to rationalise, to tell herself that he was nobody to be intimidated by, that he was a man who was technically in his  _nineties_ , for goodness sake.

But still, the thought of speaking to him sent slight shivers up her spine. A small voice in the back of her head whispered that she was not good enough to speak to him, that he was a symbol of all things good, that if he knew the terrible things she had done in her past he would turn her away in disgust, but she forced those thoughts away.

This was not about her. This was about Steve.

Steve needed help.

She knocked on his front door.

For a long minute she heard nothing, but some instinctive part of her told her that he was in, so she tried again. This time, she heard shuffling footsteps approach the front door.

Natasha could tell a lot about a person from their footsteps. They revealed physical traits, of course, such as weight, height and gait, but they offered an insight into the person's mental landscape too. From Steve's slow, shuffling footsteps, she could tell that he was hesitant to come to the door, wary perhaps, or just tired.

Before she could ponder any more on the meaning behind his footsteps, the door swung open to reveal Steve Rogers.

The first thing that struck her was how tall he was. She had seen photographs of him from the 1940s, and had obviously seen him in person lying in the Arctic ice, but neither of those had apparently given her an impression of his true height.

He was around 6 feet tall and well-muscled, with clear blue eyes and sandy blonde hair. He was wearing an old-fashioned shirt and corduroy trousers held up by braces. They looked like the kind of clothes a grandfather might wear, she thought to herself, before realising with a pang of half-pity, half-horror that they were the kind of clothes that must have been in fashion in the 1940s, when he had gone into the ice.

"Yes, ma'am?" said Steve, his tone polite but strained.

His bulk was blocking the doorway, preventing her from entering. He watched her expectantly, half looking as though he hoped she would turn around and walk away.

Natasha did no such thing. Instead, she swallowed thickly around her suddenly dry throat. He had a slightly old-fashioned New York accent, which was entirely to be expected. What she had  _not_ expected, however, was for memories of an entirely different man to flood into her mind: the Winter Soldier, when he had spoken English. His accent had been so similar to Steve's; it was uncanny.

She clenched her trembling hand and took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down before she spoke.

"Hi," she said, trying her best to smile and appear friendly and relaxed. "I'm Natasha. May I come in?"

Steve did not budge from his position filling the doorframe. He squared his jaw, looking at her suspiciously.

"Who are you?" he asked warily. "I requested no contact from the media."

Natasha smirked, reaching into her pocket to pull out her SHIELD ID card, showing it to Steve and letting him take it from her hand to inspect it more thoroughly.

"I'm not with the media," said Natasha, placatingly. "I'm an agent of SHIELD. Director Fury has asked me to be your buddy, to help you settle into the present era."

With a sigh, Steve handed back her SHIELD badge, finally stepping back and opening the door fully to allow her entry.

Natasha gave him a warm smile and a 'thank you' as she walked in, noting that his flat appeared to have exactly the same layout as hers, except in mirror-image. She crossed over the room to look out of the window, admiring the panoramic view.

"I told Fury that I don't need a babysitter," said Steve.

Natasha turned around to face him, finding that he was still stood awkwardly next to the front door. He looked uncomfortable and confused, as if he was torn between asking her to leave and simply being too stunned or intimidated by her presence to say anything at all.

"Well that's good," she said smoothly. "Because I'm your buddy, not your babysitter. I'm not going to make you chicken nugget sandwiches or take you to the bathroom."

Steve laughed. It was a small, soft sound, and even though he ducked his head when he did it, she could see that it made his whole face light up in a way that made him look radiant.

No sooner had the sound come out of his mouth, however, than he was clapping his hand to his mouth, freezing and looking so shocked and mortified that Natasha actually took a step back in alarm.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

She kept her tone calm and neutral, knowing that if he was having some kind of panic attack that the last thing he needed was for her to crowd him or start freaking out.

After a few long seconds, Steve nodded.

"Yeah, sorry ma'am," he said shakily. "I think... I think that's the first time I've laughed since the 1940s."

Natasha gave him a gentle smile, her heart rate gradually going back down to normal when she saw him slowly start to relax.

"Please, call me Natasha," she said.

A notepad lying on the table caught her eye, and without thinking she picked it up and started flicking through it. It was filled with page after page of beautifully-drawn sketches of a city skyline. Most of them were done in pencil, a couple in pen, but in all of them was the same heartfelt passion that Natasha could just  _see_ had been poured into every single stroke of ink and graphite.

"This is amazing," she said. "Did you draw all of these?"

Steve nodded shyly, a faint pink blush rising up to his cheeks.

She squinted at the drawings. The skyline looked familiar, although she could not fully place it.

"Where is this?" she asked.

Steve cleared his throat nervously.

"New York," he said.

Natasha glanced between the skyline in the drawings and the view out of the window. It was different, with buildings present in the pictures that were not there in real life and vice versa.

"The drawings look different from the skyline outside," she said.

Without warning, Steve snatched the notepad from her hands, cradling to his chest almost defensively.

"It's not the skyline  _now_ ," he said. "It's the _real_ skyline; the one that I remember."

His eyes were shimmering with tears, his hands clutching the notepad shaking as he breathed deeply.

Natasha immediately felt awful, kicking herself for being so insensitive, for being so stupid.  _Of course_  the images would be from his time. He was drawing these from memory, a tiny reminder of home, of his time, before the world sped seventy years into the future whilst he slept in the ice.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, reaching out to touch his hand before pulling back guiltily when he flinched away.

"Please leave, Natasha," he begged.

Natasha hovered, torn between respecting his wishes and wanting to put things right.

"Do you have a cell phone?" she asked.

Steve reached into his back pocket and pulled out a smartphone, handing it to her gingerly.

"Fury gave it to me," he muttered. "I haven't used it yet though."

Natasha typed in her number and saved it, realising with a pang once she had done so that hers was the only number saved in the device.

Steve took the phone from her, looking down at it with a mixture of confusion and fear.

"If you want to talk or hang out, you can call me using this phone and I'll come over, OK?" she said.

Steve nodded, biting his lip, his eyes wide with panic. His chest was still rising and falling rapidly, tears still clung to his eyelashes, and Natasha suddenly realised how totally, massively overwhelming this must be, to be surrounded by gadgets decades beyond his comprehension.

"It's OK to cry," she said gently. "Men are allowed to cry, these days."

Steve turned away, his back rigid and the back of his neck bright red with shame as he hid his tears from her.

"Please leave, ma'am," he said.

This time, she did.

 

* * *

 

It was one week later when Natasha's mobile phone began to ring.

She glanced at the screen, not recognising the phone number, and answered the call.

"Hello?" she said.

She could hear shuffling and beeping on the other end of the line, as if the other person was accidentally pressing buttons.

"Hello? Can you hear me? Did this work? Is that you, Natasha?"

Natasha smiled when she recognised Steve's voice, glad that he had finally felt ready to call her, although not so happy by how stressed he sounded.

"Hey Steve," she said. "Yes, this is Natasha. How can I help?"

Steve gave an audible sigh of relief on the other end of the phone, the sound a burst of static in Natasha's ear.

"Thank goodness, I've been trying all morning to figure out how this thing works," he said. "Can you... I mean, if you're not busy, can you come over?"

He sounded shy, as if he was not sure if inviting her over was socially acceptable or not, or perhaps he just felt anxious about seeing her again after sending her away so abruptly last time.

Natasha picked up her keys and walked over to her front door to toe on her shoes.

"Sure thing," she said. "I'll see you soon."

There was a burst of beeps from the other end of the phone as Steve no doubt tried to end the call, and after about 5 seconds Natasha took pity on him and terminated the call herself.

Locking her front door behind her, she jogged up the two flights of stairs to Steve's flat, taking a moment to smooth down her wild curls before knocking.

The door opened after a short pause, revealing a flustered-looking Steve. His eyes widened when he saw her.

"You're here already," he said nervously, licking his lips. "Sorry! That was rude. I just meant... That was fast."

He shuffled on the spot, the tips of his ears glowing red as he blushed with embarrassment.

Natasha smirked as she slid past him into his flat.

"I live in the same apartment block," she explained. "I'm just two flights of stairs away."

She saw the notepad containing Steve's sketches lying on the table, but did not touch it this time.

"I was wondering if we could go out somewhere," said Steve, looking at the floor at Natasha's feet rather than her face. "Central Park maybe. Does, um, does Central Park still exist?"

Natasha's heart sank with sadness when she heard how unsure and unconfident Steve sounded.

He was a man having to learn the world from scratch, she realised; a man out of time.

"Central Park still exists," she said. "And sure, let's go. That sounds like a lovely idea."

She gave him a kind smile, feeling encouraged when he smiled haltingly back.

Steve pulled on an old-fashioned brown leather jacket, before bending down to lace up his shoes. From this angle, Natasha could see the way his blonde hair curled slightly at his neck, as if it would form ringlets if it were grown a little longer. It made him look younger.

Natasha suddenly wondered what Steve's biological age was. He was probably even younger than her, she realised, and certainly no older than a year or two her senior. It made her instantly feel protective of him, as if it was her responsibility to take care of him.

"Let's go," she said brightly, giving him a pat on the shoulder once he had finished tying his shoelaces.

They left the flat, Steve fumbling only slightly with the keys, before they made their way along the corridor and down the stairs. Once they reached Natasha's floor, she took him on a detour, walking him to her front door and pointing to the number: 27.

"This one is my apartment," she said. "You're welcome to pop down any time you like."

Steve looked at the number seriously, committing it to memory.

"OK," he said. "Thanks."

They headed down the rest of the stairs in silence, stepping out onto the pavement and weaving their way through the throngs of people as they made their way towards the nearest taxi rank. Central Park was 10 miles away, which made it slightly impractical to walk.

As they plodded along down the tarmacked pavements, Natasha watched Steve out of the corner of her eye. She noticed that he was not looking around, staring almost determinedly at his shoes instead. He was steadfastly refusing to look at the road altogether.

She did not comment on it, avoiding speaking for the time being seeing as Steve was keeping quiet as well, figuring that he wanted a little space to process the fact he was now walking around 70 years into his future.

When they reached the taxi rank, she made a beeline for the first driver in the queue, flashing him a charming smile as she and Steve climbed into the vehicle, Natasha in the front, Steve in the back.

"Central Park, please," she said.

They headed off into the New York traffic, grey buildings going past the windows as they slowly navigated through the streets towards their destination.

Natasha kept a close eye on Steve through the rear view mirror throughout the journey. He was keeping his head down, staring at the floor of the taxi. Her eyebrows drew together into a frown when she saw how tightly clenched his fists were, the skin stretched taut and white across his knuckles. An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach; whatever was going on in Steve's mind, it clearly was not good.

They arrived at Central Park around 20 minutes later. Natasha paid the fare and thanked the driver, giving him a tip before he drove off.

Steve took a deep breath before finally looking up at Natasha, still very obviously not looking at the road.

"Can we find a spot to lie down?" he asked. "I want to look up at the sky and the clouds."

Natasha nodded and smiled, letting Steve lead the way as they entered the park and picked their way through the green oasis. After about 5 minutes of walking, Steve came to a stop, turning around in a circle and looking up, as if assessing the suitability of the spot.

"Here," he murmured, plopping himself down on the ground and stretching out onto his back.

Only once he was fully lying down and looking up at the sky did he seem to finally relax. Natasha could see the tension leave his muscles, the tightness of his jaw and the pinch of his eyebrows slowly melting away as he lay there on the lush green grass.

After a second, Natasha flopped down beside him, lying on her back as well so that she too could look up at the sky, whilst keeping Steve in her peripheral vision.

For a long while, neither of them spoke, seemingly content to just lie there lost in their own thoughts. Eventually though, Natasha voiced a question that had been bugging her almost from the moment they had stepped outside their block of flats.

"Do you not like to look at modern things?" she said. "I noticed that you avoided looking at the modern cars on the roads when we were walking earlier. And then you didn't look out of the window in the taxi either."

Beside her, Steve tensed, his muscles going rigid where he lay, a furious blush of shame spreading across his neck and cheeks. He clenched his jaw, not uttering a single word, and Natasha wondered how much of his stoic silence was Steve Rogers and how much was a by-product of the era he had been raised in, where 'real men' did not cry or talk about their feelings.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to," she said gently. "But if you want to, you need to understand that that's OK too. You can talk to me about what's going on in your head. That's why I'm here."

Maybe half an hour passed before Steve finally spoke. The pause had been so long that Natasha had stopped expecting a reply and simply resigned herself to an afternoon of silent cloud-watching with a super-soldier. She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, his words jerking her out of her reverie.

"Seeing modern things reminds me that the time I knew is gone forever," he said, his voice rough with unshed emotion. "It's not just the skyline and the cars that have changed, you know. It's  _everything_. Technology, culture, attitudes. I can't get my smartphone to work because I didn't understand half the words that Fury said when he gave it to me. And that's a thing in itself; back in my time, a man like Fury would never have become the head of SHIELD."

Natasha frowned in confusion.

"A man like Fury?" she echoed.

"A coloured person."

 _Oh_.

Natasha sat up, chewing her lip as she thought carefully about how to say what she said next whilst causing as little upset as possible. Steve did not mean to be offensive, she knew that logically, his vocabulary was a result of the culture that had prevailed in his time, before non-white people had been given equal rights.

"You're not supposed to say 'coloured', these days," she said, as neutrally as possible. "It's considered racist. 'Black' or 'African American' is preferred nowadays."

Steve's mouth fell open in shock, his face draining of colour as he sat up abruptly, hunching over in an obvious display of horror and mortification, covering his face with shame.

"I'm sorry," he said through his fingers, and Natasha was shocked to see tears trickling between them. "I'm not a racist. I'm... I'm an idiot. I don't know  _anything_ about the present day."

Natasha scooted over to sit next to him, putting an arm around him and rubbing his back gently as he cried silently. His large frame was shaking with the effort it took to hold it all in. Natasha felt her heart breaking for him, a man who was so far away from home that he did not even understand the vocabulary, let alone the technology or culture, of the environment he had unwittingly found himself in.

"It's OK," she said. "You can cry. It's OK."

Steve finally brought his hands away from his face. His eyes were red and puffy, his nose dripping and his cheeks streaked with tears. Natasha withdrew a tissue from her pocket, before pausing and deciding to give him the entire packet instead. He took it with a watery smile, thanking her as he took one and wiped his face with it.

"My parents are dead," he said, his voice breaking. "All my family, they're all dead. And almost all my friends. They never... They never brought Bucky's body home."

He dissolved into a fresh flood of tears, burying his face in his tissue as he tried in vain to stifle his sobs.

Natasha let him cry, gently stroking his back in a calm, soothing gesture until he finally regained some of his composure.

She remembered how much of a relief it had been when she had first spoken to the Bartons about some of her own problems. The catharsis, the release, had been immense.

If Steve was already feeling ready to talk, even if just a little, then this was definitely a good sign. He had a long way still to go, sure, but every journey began with a single step.

"Who's Bucky?" she asked, when Steve looked a little steadier.

Steve's face lit up momentarily as he smiled, as if the memory of Bucky was something warm and bright, like a candle in the dark.

"He was my best friend," he said. "He fell from a train in Austria during a mission in World War Two. They never found his body."

Natasha bowed her head in respect, sympathy rushing through her. She knew a thing or two about losing a close friend.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

Steve glanced over at her, giving her a tired smile that did not quite reach the sadness in his eyes.

"Sometimes I wish that I had never woken up," he admitted quietly. "Sometimes I wish I had died in the ice. This isn't my world. My world is gone. Everything's different now. Sometimes I'm scared I might never get used to it."

Natasha ached to be able to reach inside his body and rip the pain away, because she knew exactly how he was feeling. She knew what it was like to be lost in the world, so totally utterly  _lost_ that it felt as though finding one's way again was an impossible task, as achievable as jumping and somehow reaching the moon.

She wanted nothing more than to take his pain and throw it away like a physical thing, but she could not, so instead, she talked.

"I was in your position once," she said, lifting her chin and gazing off into the distance, not really seeing what was there. "I know what it's like to be thrust into a new world. I know what it's like to feel like you'll never fit in, like you'll never belong. I was brought up in Russia, raised from the age of 3 to be a spy and an assassin. They made me into a monster but for some crazy reason, the universe took a liking to me and sent a good SHIELD agent my way. He helped me escape. When I arrived here, I had nothing: no family, no friends, no possessions. I had no feelings of self-worth or any feeling of belonging, so trust me, I know what you're going through now, and it does get better."

When she finally looked over at Steve, he was staring at her with his mouth hanging open slightly, his baby blue eyes wide and amazed.

"I'm sorry. I had no idea," he said. "You seem like you're really well-adjusted now though. Is that real or just... spy acting?"

Natasha's lips quirked up in amusement.

"This is all real," she smiled. "I'm well-adjusted now. But I didn't do it alone; I had these awesome people who were on my side, helping me: Clint and Laura. They made me feel like I was important, like I mattered as a person and not just an asset. They took me in and treated me like family. That's why I'm here, so I can help you adjust too. I want to be for you what Clint and Laura were for me."

Steve smiled, the first genuine smile she had seen on his face, she realised, judging by the way his eyes twinkled, making his entire face light up.

"Thank you," he said.

Natasha smiled back, the atmosphere between them suddenly seeming a lot lighter, as if someone had shone a light in a dark corner and swiped all the cobwebs away.

The pathways of communication were open now, an implicit trust having been established now that Steve knew that Natasha had been through something similar and come out of the other side unscathed.

Natasha let out a sigh of relief she had not even realised she had been holding.

"Hey, um, my  _smartphone_ ," said Steve, enunciating the word slowly and clearly, as if he were trying hard to get used to it in his mouth. "Could you teach me how to use it? And Fury kept mentioning this thing called the internet. Can you explain what that is too?"

Natasha nodded, holding out a hand for Steve's phone, figuring it would be easier to physically demonstrate these things than explain them in an abstract, theoretical way.

Steve handed over his phone quickly, leaning forwards and cupping his head in his hands like an eager student.

"Sure," she said, smiling. "So, the internet is like this _huge_ library..."

 

* * *

 

From then on, they met fairly regularly.

Every few days, Steve would call or text Natasha, and they would meet up. Sometimes they went out for a meal, other times they just met up and went out for a walk.

Gradually, Steve became more and more comfortable with looking at the road. He stopped flinching whenever a modern new car or motorbike would roar past, and one day he even commented on how he liked the look of one particularly beautiful new sports car as it drove past.

Natasha could not help the huge grin from breaking out onto her face when he had said that.

It took a month, however, for Steve to actually come and visit Natasha in her flat.

It was the middle of the night.

Natasha was jerked from her sleep by an insistent pounding on her front door. She slipped her hand under her pillow and retrieved her gun, padding silently towards the front door, alert and focused.

She flicked off the safety on her gun, breathing evenly as she tried to think of any reason why someone would be coming after her. She had plenty of enemies, both from her days as a KGB agent and as a SHIELD agent, but she could not work out why any of them would decide to come after her  _now_.

"Natasha?!"

_Steve?_

Natasha instantly lowered her weapon, tucking it into the waistband of her pyjama bottoms as she hurried forward to unlock her front door.

It swung open to reveal Steve, sweating and out of breath in his old-fashioned pyjamas. His face was pale, his eyes wide and frightened. When Natasha put a hand on his back to guide him in, she could feel that he was shaking.

"What happened?" she asked, pushing him gently towards the sofa in a silent invitation to sit down.

He sat, closing his eyes and letting out a long exhale as he did so.

"I had a nightmare about the war," he said, his hands still trembling as he reached up to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead. "Is it OK if we hang out for a bit?"

Natasha nodded immediately. She was no stranger to waking up in the middle of the night, haunted by memories she would rather forget. She understood.

"Sure," she said. "You can help me finish off some vanilla ice cream."

She quickly crossed the open-plan space, digging around in her freezer to retrieve the ice cream and then grabbing two spoons from the cutlery drawer.

When she sat down next to Steve on the sofa, she was pleased to see that he seemed a little calmer than he had when he had first entered the flat.

She removed the lid from the ice cream, wordlessly handing him a spoon and placing the tub between them.

Steve twirled the spoon between his fingers absent-mindedly, before plunging it into the frozen dessert and scooping out a large portion. Natasha scooped out a smaller piece and sucked on it as she watched Steve and waited for him to speak.

He remained silent for a long while, staring out of the window at the twinkling lights of New York at night.

"Do you want to talk about the nightmare?" she suggested, trying to make it clear in her tone that it was an offer, not an order.

Steve blanched and shook his head hard.

"OK," she said, scooping out another mouthful of ice cream. "Tell me this then. What do you get up to, when you're not meeting up with me? How does Captain America spend his days?"

Steve grinned briefly at her use of his title, as if it amused or bemused him to hear himself referred to as that.

"Reading," he replied. "I've been doing a lot of reading, catching up on the last 70 years of history and cultural change. I've built up quite a library of books just learning all the stuff I've missed out on. Luckily I like reading and learning, so it's not too much of a chore. Makes me feel like less of an idiot too, so that's something."

Natasha huffed out a little laugh, although in reality she felt more sad than amused at his words.

"You're not an idiot, Steve," she said. "There's a difference between being uninformed and unintelligent."

Steve blushed as he ducked his head.

"I guess," he muttered. "I've been doing a lot of drawing too. I've, um, started drawing modern things now. The skyline from nowadays rather than from my time, cars, people, stuff like that."

Natasha smiled. Steve drawing modern landscapes and objects was a big step in the right direction. It showed that he was beginning to accept that this was where – or rather  _when_ – he lived now, rather than pining for the past.

"There's a gym round the corner too," Steve continued. "I like to work out there. I go at night, when there's no one else around. You're welcome to come join me some time if you like."

Natasha hummed with interest. It would be interesting to see Steve's super-fitness in action. She wondered how they would fare in a technical spar against one another. Steve may have strength, but Natasha had skills.

"It gets lonely in my apartment though," he admitted. "I like hanging out with you. It makes me feel like a person rather than a hermit. Do you have any friends in Russia?"

The question caught her off guard, causing her to flinch before she could stop herself. She flushed immediately, averting her eyes to look down at the scant remains of their ice cream.

"No," she said, more aggressively than she meant too.

She closed her eyes and sighed, the fight going out of her muscles. She should not snap at Steve; he had not meant to upset her.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I mean, you don't have to talk about it. We can forget about it."

Natasha shook her head, laying a hand on his arm to let him know that it was OK.

"It's fine," she said. "Friendship has just always been a difficult subject for me. In the school where I was raised, the Red Room Academy, we were taught that friendship was wrong. Still, I... I had two friends, Elena and James, but they died. They were killed."

Steve's eyes immediately widened with horror and he moved closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulder almost protectively.

"I'm so sorry, Natasha. That's awful," he said. "Who killed them?"

He was looking at her so kindly and earnestly that Natasha had to look away, her cheeks already burning with shame as her mind supplied the answer, dark and accusing.

"Elena was killed by a classmate," she said.

She lapsed into silence, guilt and shame gnawing at her as the heavy knowledge of what she had done to James filled the void between them.

It did not matter how many times Laura and Clint told her that what had happened was not her fault, or however often she tried to convince herself of it, she knew that what she had done to James was unforgivable. Whatever anyone else might say, it had been her choice, she had made that conscious decision. She was the one who had pulled that trigger. She could not blame anyone else.

"I killed James," she said quietly. "It was my last day at school. I had to kill him in order to graduate."

Steve flinched, staring at her with undisguised horror written plain across his face.

Natasha turned away, unexpectedly hurt by his reaction. She was not entirely sure when she had started caring about Steve's opinion of her but, she realised, what he thought did matter to her.

"I'm a monster," she said, hunching in on herself so that she would not have to see the revulsion on Steve's face. "But I'm trying to put things right now."

Steve's arms suddenly wrapping tight around her were not what she expected at all. As she allowed herself to be pulled into the hug, she rested her head on his chest, confusion bursting inside of her.

"The  _school_ was the monster, not you," he said fiercely. "I can't believe they'd make you do something like that. That's horrible. I can't... I can't imagine anything worse."

Natasha bit down on her lip, tears unexpectedly welling in her eyes as she buried her face in Steve's chest. She had been so sure he would hate her for her admission, that it simultaneously felt like a relief and a shock for him to react so differently.

"I'm sorry," she said, pulling away with a watery smile. "I'm supposed to be helping you reintegrate into society, not dumping my own problems onto you."

Steve shook his head adamantly, giving her a small smile.

"We'll help one another," he said. "That's what friends are for, right?"

Natasha averted her eyes, looking out of the window at the New York skyline, a row of twinkling lights in the night. A warm feeling spread through her chest, a smile slowly tugging her lips upwards of Steve's words sank in.

 _Friends_.

They were friends. It was a nice thought. She and Steve were very different people, but she found him interesting. He was down-to-earth, intelligent, and wore his heart on his sleeve in a way that showed that he was truthful and honest with his feelings. Yes, she could very much be on board with the idea of her and Steve being friends.

"My nightmare was about Bucky," Steve volunteered suddenly. "I dreamt about him falling from the train. I knew what was going to happen, but I couldn't stop it. I just had to stand there and watch him fall. I woke up when he hit the ground."

Natasha crossed her legs and turned to face him.

She remembered that Steve had mentioned Bucky before, when they had gone to Central Park one month previously. Bucky had been Steve's best friend.

"Tell me about Bucky," she said. "What was he like?"

Steve crossed his own legs, mirroring her position as they faced one another on the sofa. He picked at his fingernails, a sad smile tugging at his lips. His eyes were swimming with a melancholy mixture of fondness and grief.

"He was amazing," he said. "He was about 6 foot tall, with light brown hair and bright blue eyes. He was a loyal friend. He was funny and smart and loved to flirt with the dames. We were best friends for as long as I can remember, ever since we were little kids. He's one of the few people who respected me before I was injected with the serum and made into Captain America. He was always there for me. He'd come round to my house and look after me when I was ill. Sometimes, he'd sneak me out of the house and we'd mess around together. We'd always be getting into trouble but for some reason it didn't matter, because we were getting in trouble  _together_. When the war broke out, he didn't hesitate to join the Army. He was the kindest, bravest man I've ever met. He was a good man. He was just... Bucky."

Natasha reached out and held Steve's hand gently. He was trembling gently, his lip wobbling as tears clung to his eyelashes.

"He sounds like a great man," she said. "You must miss him."

Steve looked up, two tears rolling down his cheeks as they finally broke free from his dark blonde eyelashes.

"All the time," he whispered.

 

* * *

 

It was almost a year to the day since Steve was recovered from the ice when he invited Natasha around to his flat for a home-cooked dinner.

He had hinted that he wanted to make her something special, but he had kept tight-lipped about the details, so when Natasha turned up outside his front door she had no idea what to expect.

He came to the door almost immediately at the sound of her knocking, a mouth-watering aroma washing over her the moment she stepped into his flat.

"Hey," said Steve, giving her a warm smile and pulling her into a hug.

Natasha smiled as she returned the hug, sniffing the air to try to figure out what was cooking. The smell of exotic spices was delicious, filling the whole flat.

"You're right on time, I'm almost finished," said Steve, hurrying back to the stove to stir the contents of a pan.

Natasha followed him, leaning on the island in the middle of the kitchen area to watch him cook.

"It smells amazing," she said, her stomach growling loudly in anticipation.

Steve beamed as he thanked her, switching off the hob and oven as he began pulling out plates and heaping food onto them.

Without thinking, Natasha crossed over to the cutlery drawer and pulled out knives and forks. She walked over and set the table, sitting herself down just as Steve came over with two plates of steaming food.

"Chicken curry, home-made bhajis and rice," he said proudly. "I used the internet to find the recipe and watched videos on YouTube to learn how to make the bhajis properly."

Natasha grinned as she took her first bite, humming appreciatively as she did so.

It was delicious, the flavours exploding on her tongue and melting in her mouth.

"This is so good," said Natasha, scooping up her second mouthful eagerly. "You did an awesome job, Steve."

Steve glowed under the praise, a happy, excited expression on his face as he accepted the compliment.

"I think I kind of like the modern age now," he said. "The internet's so useful. And there are so many different foods and cultures all mixed together. It's so interesting."

Natasha took a sip of mango juice before speaking.

"Do you feel happy in the present age now?" she asked.

Steve chewed as he considered it, before a gentle smile broke out onto his face.

"Yeah, I think so," he said. "It's been almost a year since I woke up. Back then, all I wanted was to go back to my own time, but things are different now. I don't feel like such an outsider anymore. I've caught up on almost everything that's happened in the last 70 years. I've had counselling which has taught me to let go of the things I'll never get back. I've met you. I'm happy. That's what this is all about – this meal. I wanted to say thank you for helping me to adjust to the modern age. I couldn't have done it without you."

Natasha reached over and grasped his hand tightly, a grin stretching her face so hard that it hurt.

" _You_ did this," she said. "I helped, but you did it. I'm so proud of you."

Steve ducked his head, smiling at his plate as he squeezed her hand in return.

"Thanks, Nat."

Natasha decided not to correct him – she really  _did_ prefer the full version of her name – letting it slide for the sake of not spoiling the moment.

They finished the rest of their meal at a leisurely pace, chatting amiably and cracking jokes until all that remained of the wonderful meal was a few smears of sauce on their plates. Steve carried the plates to the sink, letting them soak as he returned to Natasha, patting her on the shoulder lightly as he passed her to settle down on the sofa.

Natasha took it as an invitation to join him and settled down next to him, curling her feet under herself like a cat.

"Another SHIELD agent came here yesterday," said Steve. "He told me that Peggy's still alive. I thought she was dead."

Natasha frowned, groping through her memories to find any previous mention of a Peggy, but finding nothing.

"Who's Peggy?" she asked.

Steve startled, looking surprised that she did not know.

"Peggy Carter was this wonderful woman in the US Army," said Steve, the fondness in his tone evident. "She was always kind to everyone, even me. She respected me even before I was injected with the serum. She helped to found SHIELD after World War Two actually, according to the agent that came around yesterday."

Natasha hummed. She vaguely remembered that in one of her lessons in the Red Room Academy, Madame B had briefly mentioned the founding of SHIELD. She had a hazy recollection of one of the founders being female.

"I've heard of her," she said.

"We had a date to go dancing when I went into the ice," said Steve. He leaned his head on his hand, his face a mixture of sadness and tiredness. "She went on to marry and have two children. I'm happy for her, but I'm sad that I've missed out on her life."

Natasha was silent as she pondered what it must be like, to go to sleep one day looking forward to a date with someone you had romantic feelings for, only to wake up the next to find them aged by 70 years; to find that while you were sleeping, they had lived out their entire life, without you.

It was sad beyond measure.

Natasha could not imagine the grief Steve must feel, despite his stoic exterior.

"You've not missed out on her whole life," she said eventually. "She's still alive. You can still spend time with her, be her friend in her twilight years. I bet she has so many stories to tell you."

Steve smiled, a small sad little thing.

"I'm thinking of going to visit her this weekend," he said. "Will you come with me?"

Natasha slipped her hand into Steve's, giving it a little squeeze.

"Of course," she said.

He must be nervous about meeting Peggy again after all these years, she realised. Perhaps he was worried about how much time had changed her. Perhaps he was worried that after so long apart, they would not have anything to talk about, no common ground.

Natasha pursed her lips, adamant that Steve would not have to go through such a difficult experience alone.

"Wanna see a picture of her?" said Steve, grinning suddenly, his worried frown disappearing to be replaced by an eager smile.

Natasha's lips quirked upwards in reply as she got to her feet and followed Steve to a display cabinet that Steve had filled with books, photographs and trinkets.

He pointed to a picture of a beautiful young woman. It was in black and white, obviously taken in the 1940s, but Natasha could tell by the darkness of Peggy's hair and eyes that they must have been a stunning dark brown.

"She's beautiful," she said.

She stood there for a long while, drinking in the photograph of this remarkable woman; the woman who had co-founded SHIELD, the woman who had believed in Steve Rogers before he became Captain America, when he was just a skinny, chronically ill, asthmatic scrap of a man.

It was sheer luck – or lack thereof – that she did not look at the photograph next to it, which showed Steve with his arm slung around the shoulders of the Winter Soldier.

 

* * *

 

It was a couple of weeks later when Natasha received an unexpected visitor.

She had gone to the supermarket to buy some groceries and had just returned home to her flat, her hand digging around in her pocket for her front door key, when she noticed it.

There was a slight disturbance in the air, the doormat shifted slightly from its earlier position; she knew instantly, instinctively, that someone was in there, inside her flat.

She placed her groceries silently on the floor, her heart hammering and her attention razor sharp as she pulled a gun from inside her jacket, flicking off the safety catch and taking a cautious step forward towards the front door.

She wrapped a fist around the door knob, gripping it tightly and twisting slowly. The door opened without a sound thanks to the hinges that she always ensured were well-oiled for situations just like this.

She quickly stepped inside the flat, making sure to tread carefully, avoiding the floorboards that she knew creaked and stepping lightly so that her rubber-soled shoes made no noise as she moved.

She had placed a bookcase between the front door and the main living area in an attempt to break up the open-plan space, a decision she was now regretting as it meant that she did not have a clear view of her flat for an extra few seconds.

She took a deep, silent breath, tightening her finger around the trigger of her gun and running through her old ballet routine in her head, turning her mind to one of emotionless, efficient marble.

She stepped around the bookcase, her heart rate skyrocketing when she saw someone sitting calmly on the sofa.

Even from behind, he was instantly recognisable.

She exhaled shakily, flicking the safety catch of her gun back on and tucking it back into her jacket.

"Attentive as always," said Director Fury, not bothering to turn around. "That's good."

Natasha huffed out a breath, slightly annoyed that Director Fury had seen fit to go through the theatrics of breaking in and waiting for her on her sofa, rather than just standing outside and waiting for her to return from the shops like a normal human being.

She walked around to the other side of the room so that she was facing Director Fury rather than talking to the back of his head, noticing as she did so that he was wearing his usual outfit of a long black leather jacket and a dark suit. She wondered if he actually owned any other clothes.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, perhaps more rudely than was appropriate to talk to your boss, but hey, he  _had_ just broken in to her flat.

"I've come to let you know that I'm taking you off this mission," he said, seemingly unperturbed by Natasha's tone. "Project Patriot has been completed successfully. Congratulations, Agent."

Natasha stood in stunned silence for a couple of seconds. In the last year, she had got so used to living in New York with Steve just upstairs that she had stopped consciously thinking of it as a mission. She had known, logically, that the mission, like all missions, would have an ending, but she had not been expecting it so suddenly.

"Oh," was all she managed to say.

"Captain Rogers contacted SHIELD this morning, saying that he'd like to offer his services if he can," explained Director Fury. "You've managed to successfully integrate him into society to the point where he voluntarily came to us. Well done, Natasha."

Natasha chewed on her lip. She was pleased that Steve felt so comfortable in the modern age that he felt ready to serve with SHIELD, of course, but she would be lying if she said there was not a part of her that was a little sad that the mission had come to an end.

In the last year, Steve had gone from being a project to being a friend.

"What happens now?" she asked.

Director Fury stood up, his long leather coat flapping slightly as he did so.

"You've earned yourself a break," he said. "Take a month off. Go back to your apartment with Coulson; he's missed you. Go see the Bartons. You can report back to work in a month's time. We've got a job lined up for you and your Russian language skills – a corrupt General in the Russian Army we'd like to investigate, but that can wait. For now, just relax and enjoy a month off. You've earned it."

Giving her a parting smile and a handshake, he let himself out of her flat.

She stared at the front door long after it slammed shut, still slightly shocked at how suddenly the mission had ended. She had made a home for herself in New York after the last year, found a friend in Steve Rogers; it was strange to think that all of that was now over.

Fumbling with her phone, she flicked through her contacts all the way down to the letter P and pressed the call icon.

Phil picked up on the third ring, his excitement clear as soon as he spoke.

"Natasha!" he said. "It's been ages! How're things?"

Natasha found herself smiling as she sank down to sit on the floor.

"I'm good," she said. "It's good to hear your voice again."

She bit her lip, suddenly feeling tearful, only now realising how much she had missed her friend.

"I'm coming back to the apartment," she said. "Unless you've rented it out to someone else since I've been gone?"

She was only half joking, painfully aware of how suddenly she had had to leave when the mission had begun. Director Fury had boxed up all her stuff, meaning that Natasha had not even had the chance to properly say goodbye to Phil before she had disappeared. The last time they had spoken had been over the phone on the day she had moved to New York. Phil would be well within his rights to have rented out her room to someone else after such a rude departure.

His gentle reply, however, assuaged all her doubts.

"It's your room, Natasha," he said. "Of course I've not given it to someone else."

Natasha grinned, suddenly wildly excited about moving back to live with Phil. They chatted for another few minutes, Natasha letting Phil know what time she expected to be back and arranging an evening meal out to celebrate. When she hung up, she sighed happily, taking a minute to let herself soak in the endorphins before returning to her phone book and dialling another number, a landline this time.

It was Laura who picked up, the sound of Cooper and Lila playing together clearly audible in the background.

"Hello?" said Laura, sounding in equal parts confused and concerned, and Natasha realised that their quiet, remote existence did not lend itself to frequent phone calls.

"It's Natasha," Natasha said quickly, lest Laura think that something had happened to Clint on a mission and this was the dreaded phone call that no spouse ever wanted to receive.

Laura let out a loud sigh of relief on the other end of the line, laughing slightly.

"Oh, hi Natasha!" she said. "Sorry, our caller display's broken. It's nice to hear from you! Does this mean you've finished your mysterious solo mission?"

Natasha laughed softly, picking at the carpet with her fingers.

"Yeah," she said. "Just finished today. I've been given a month off. I'm heading back home today and I'm gonna spend a couple of weeks with Phil, but I was wondering, if it were OK with you guys, if I could spend the last two weeks at the farmhouse? I've missed you all."

Laura's squeal of delight was so loud that Natasha had to hold the phone a few inches away from her ear. She grinned, not realising until now how much she had missed the sound.

"Yes!" said Laura. "Totally, completely yes! Clint and Cooper have been whining all year about when you're coming around next. It's been making me feel a bit inadequate, if I'm honest."

They laughed, quickly arranging an exact date and travel arrangements before hanging up, exchanging  _I love yous_  before they ended the call.

The phone buzzed in her hand as she held it. It was a text message from Director Fury, telling her that SHIELD would take care of packing and moving her belongings.

The news made her feel slightly uneasy. SHIELD was efficient, and that was a good thing, but it suddenly made her departure so much more immediate. Without having to pack and move, she was basically able to go home _now_ , and that seemed too soon, too sudden for her to be completely comfortable with.

Sighing, she picked up her keys and strode over to the front door, yanking it open and walking up the two flights of stairs to Steve's flat. The familiar route felt natural and normal. It was strange to think that this time tomorrow, she would be living so many miles away.

Steve came to the door almost as soon as she knocked, dressed in jogging gear. He had obviously just been about to leave for a run, and Natasha found herself immensely grateful that she had caught him before he left. The thought of leaving without saying goodbye did not sit well with her.

"Natasha!" said Steve, a broad grin breaking out on his face. "What's up?"

Natasha looked up at him, taking in how happy and content he looked. He was completely different from the sad, unconfident man she had first met, and she was hit by a sudden sense of pride, because Steve was doing so well, and that was wonderful, and for that they both had reason to be proud.

"Hey," she said, smiling. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm moving back to my own apartment. Director Fury's happy that you've integrated into society, so he's taken me off babysitting duty."

Steve's face fell, his mouth a little 'o' of surprise.

"I'm really pleased with how much you've come on since we first met," she said. "You've done an amazing job of adjusting to modern day life. You should be proud of yourself."

Steve pulled her into a tight hug, squeezing her close as he placed a chaste kiss on the top of her head.

"Thanks for all your help," he said softly. "I couldn't have done it without you."

When he finally let her go, they regarded one another with a look of fondness, gentle smiles playing on their lips.

"I hope we'll see each other again soon," said Steve.

Natasha nodded.

"Me too," she said.

Neither of them knew just how soon they would be forced to become reacquainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2K READERS: Woohoo, Fearless just broke the 2,000 reader milestone! Thank you to each and every one of you for following Natasha's journey. <3
> 
> STEVE ROGERS: *flails* Who else loves Steve? Alongside Natasha, he is one of my favourite Marvel characters, so I am super-excited to have him in this story! :D
> 
> If you're interested, I have written some Steve-centric stories. These are all completed works, so if you fancy some extra reading whilst you're waiting for the next chapter of Fearless, feel free to check them out ;) They are:
> 
> [Vengeance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7285612/chapters/16544104) \- The thought of joining HYDRA made Steve feel sick. He would never join such an organisation. Never. But then Bucky Barnes – his best friend, his everything – fell from the train, and everything changed. (51,572 words).
> 
> [Turkish Oil Wrestling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7013452) \- Steve and Bucky decide to have a wrestling match to settle an old score. Cue them stripping down to their pants, getting oiled up and engaging in a vigorous wrestling match that leaves them both hot, sweaty and looking like they're doing a lot more than just wrestling. But when the Avengers interrupt them, will they believe their protests that they're just engaging in the traditional Turkish sport of oil wrestling? (2,620 words).
> 
> [The End Of The Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7088617) \- After Bucky Barnes fell from the train to his assumed death, Steve Rogers had to come to terms with a world without him in it. He closed his eyes and conjured up Bucky’s face in his mind. He could see him clearly, every line and every freckle, the exact shade of blue of his eyes, the way his hair would sit, the surprising softness of it and the way it smelled. It was perfect, but it was an illusion. He knew that if he opened his eyes he would only see his room, dark and empty and too large for one person. So he kept his eyes shut, focusing on Bucky until it hurt to think. (3,433 words).
> 
> [In Memoriam: James Buchanan Barnes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7924684) \- After Bucky falls from the train to his assumed death, a grief-stricken Steve writes a Shakespearean sonnet in honour of his best friend.  
>  (120 words).
> 
> AND BUCKY BARNES: Ooh, look how the apparently separate plotlines are slowly converging...! It's almost as if I planned it this way...
> 
> THANK YOU: I gobble up comments like a hoover in a dust factory, so thank you to everyone who's been leaving me such wonderful messages. I really appreciate it and it makes me very happy :) (And if you've not commented yet but you want to, it's not too late to start!)
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "Avengers"!
> 
> CHARACTER CONCEPT ART: I have belatedly put together some concept art for the characters of Natasha, Elena, Katerina and Tatiana. You can view it [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/159946293996/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-character) if you're interested!
> 
> WANT MORE TEASERS? I'm posting more teasers on [my Tumblr](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/), so if you want more Fearless gossip or just want to have a stalk, feel free to check it out, or even give me a follow or drop me a message if you're feeling super-friendly <3


	28. Avengers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sit down, get comfortable and get yourselves in the mood by filling your ears with [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pswuo159oks) ;)
> 
> As always, [chapter art](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/160590816226/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter).

2012 – Aged 28

 

* * *

 

It all started on a Tuesday.

There was nothing remarkable about it. It was a Tuesday like any other; completely ordinary, entirely unremarkable.

It was sunny; bright morning sunshine with a pleasant, cool breeze.

That morning, Natasha had bran flakes, yogurt and raspberries for breakfast. Phil had toast. They spent half an hour together at the kitchen table, eating their breakfast and talking excitedly about going on another holiday to Yosemite National Park with the Bartons later in the year.

It was Natasha's first day back at work following her month off after successfully reintegrating Steve into society. She chatted animatedly with Phil about her first mission back in the game, and then went to brush her teeth and get dressed.

She packed an overnight bag for her mission and gave Phil a hug before leaving the flat and heading to the SHIELD base.

There, she made her way to one of the Quinjets and climbed aboard, inputting the coordinates of her destination.

She was going to Russia. SHIELD suspected that a Russian General named Georgi Luchkov was running some kind of art and weapon smuggling ring. There was plenty of circumstantial evidence but not anything concrete that could be pinned on him. Natasha was to go in and extract a confession from him.

It should be a simple job.

The flight to Russia was long and quiet. It was a solo mission, which meant that she had no partner or team coming along with her. She did not mind the quietness. It allowed her to think clearly and prepare herself mentally for the mission. She was not worried. She had extracted confessions from people far more frightening than General Luchkov before.

She landed in Russia in the late evening, darkening skies and half-hearted drizzle welcoming her back to her homeland. She landed the Quinjet in a field right on the very outskirts of Moscow, activating the retro-reflective panels that shielded the outside of the aircraft, making it invisible to casual observers.

Next to the field was a train line, and a little further down the road, a warehouse. The warehouse was a place where General Luchkov was suspected of storing some of his stolen art and weapons. If all went to plan, she would find herself there later tonight.

She intended on getting captured, on getting him to spill his secrets by playing the part of a weak woman. Men like General Luchkov loved to hear the sound of their own voice. They frequently underestimated the capabilities of those who they perceived to be weaker. She would take advantage of this foolish prejudice for all it was worth.

Pulling on a short black dress that was far from her usual style, she brushed her hair and triple-checked that the dual recording and tracking device hidden in her bra was working correctly.

Satisfied that she was mission-ready, she slipped out into the night, walking down the road towards a bar that she had been informed General Luchkov frequented every Tuesday and Thursday night.

The smell of stale cigarette smoke hit her as soon as she entered the dingy bar. She tried not to wrinkle her nose in disgust at the smell and instead made her way to the bar, ordering herself a shot of vodka as she surreptitiously scouted the place out.

A couple of old ladies were sat in the corner, some young men too, looking at her with interest. She shot a fierce glare at the young men, smirking to herself when they paled and hurriedly turned away.

It took around 10 minutes for General Luchkov to arrive, unmistakable in his military uniform and smug expression. With him were two young men, dressed in civilian clothing but still very obviously soldiers based on their straight-backed stance and sharp, intelligent eyes.

General Luchkov's eyes zeroed in on her, a predatory smile settling on his face as he licked his lips and walked towards her. Natasha resisted the urge to shudder.

"Good evening," he said, sitting down on the stool next to her without asking for permission. "A beautiful young lady such as yourself shouldn't be out on her own in bars like this. There may be men with less than gentlemanly intentions."

The bartender placed a shot of vodka in front of the General, not bothering to ask for his order.

"Sometimes a lady doesn't want a gentleman," Natasha replied, her voice low and husky. "Sometimes a lady needs a real man, someone rougher."

The General's gaze swept down, taking in her cleavage and legs with a pleased-looking nod. Natasha imagined punching him in the face, making sure to keep a smile on her face and her hands completely still and steady in real life.

"Georgi Luchkov," he said, holding out his hand.

"Natasha Putina," she replied smoothly, letting the General take her hand and kiss it.

"Do you wish to spend the night with a real man, Miss Putina?" asked the General, not wasting any time getting to the point. "Or are you going to sit around here and waste your time on one of these boys?"

He gestured casually to the young men Natasha had seen watching her earlier. They looked uneasily at the General, quickly finishing their drinks and exiting the bar. Natasha wished she was joining them. Instead, she winked and hopped off her barstool, leading the way out of the bar.

The General and his two henchmen followed.

"Do you have some place nearby?" she asked. "I want to help you relax, General. Exporting must be such  _hard_ work."

General Luchkov stopped in his tracks, turning to stare at her slowly, all traces of his previous smile gone.

Natasha's heart hammered madly inside her chest as the seconds ticked by in silence.

"I never said I was a General," said Luchkov, softly. "And I didn't mention any export business."

Natasha schooled her features into one of horror, a hand flying up to cover her mouth as if the action might shove her words back inside. It was all an act, and an obvious one at that, but apparently General Luchkov was not one for subtlety, and so he fell for it hook, line and sinker.

"I... I..." stammered Natasha, letting a few choreographed tears falls down her cheeks.

"Grab her," snapped General Luchkov to his two henchmen. "We're taking Miss Putina to the warehouse."

The two thugs grabbed Natasha by the arms, hauling her along the deserted road towards the abandoned warehouse.

A spurt of satisfaction went through Natasha. So, General Luchkov  _was_ likely storing goods in the warehouse, just as SHIELD had suspected. And he was taking her there. This was excellent. It was all going to plan.

They arrived at the warehouse within minutes. General Luchkov unlocked the door and flicked on the lights as they entered. The warehouse was large, dusty but not as abandoned as it was supposed to be. The low hum of a generator was audible and boxes upon boxes were stacked on top of one another. Out of the top of one of them, Natasha saw the barrel of a shotgun.

The henchmen hauled her inside, dragging her up several flights of stairs by her arms. She struggled weakly between them, using only a fraction of her real strength and letting a few more stray tears leak out of her eyes.

General Luchkov grabbed a chair and placed it in the middle of the room, right in front of a large hole in the floor that Natasha could see went down several storeys right to the bottom of the warehouse. The henchmen dragged her to the chair, one of them forcing her to sit whilst the other pulled out several lengths of rope and tied her to it.

She was not entirely expecting it when one of the men hit her hard across the face. Her gasp was, for the first time that night, genuine.

"This is not how I wanted this evening to go," said General Luchkov, speaking for the first time since they entered the warehouse.

He almost sounded regretful, as if he really would much rather be spending his evening engaging in other, more sexual activities, as they had alluded to earlier when they had flirted in the bar.

This time, Natasha did not bother to hide the disgust from her voice.

"I know how you wanted this evening to go," she said. "Believe me, this is better."

The General sighed, before turning around to face her, his expression cold and hard.

"Who are you working for?" he demanded. "Lermontov, yes?"

Natasha had no idea who Lermontov was, but did not let her face betray any emotion or surprise. She hoped the microphone embedded in her bra was good enough to pick up the name clearly. SHIELD would no doubt want to keep a close eye on this Lermontov, whoever he was.

The henchman stood closest to her suddenly grabbed her chair and tilted it backwards over the gaping hole in the floor. Natasha's heart rate skyrocketed, her stockinged feet flailing for purchase on the warehouse floor. She was fairly sure she could escape the bonds of the chair and save herself if the man attempted to drop her down the hole, but it was still not a pleasant prospect to think about.

"Does he think we have to go through him to move our cargo?" General Luchkov continued.

The henchman thankfully placed her chair back on all four legs. Natasha breathed out a silent sigh of relief before replying.

"I thought General Solohob is in charge of the export business," she said.

General Luchkov laughed; it was a cold, humourless sound.

"Solohob? A bagman, a front," he said. "Your outdated information betrays you. The famous Black Widow, and she turns out to be simply another pretty face."

Natasha fought to keep her face neutral, not letting her shock show on her features. She had not expected the General to work out her identity – at least, not so quickly. Stamping down the feeling of unease that came with being wrong-footed, she instead decided to play the General at his own game and go for psychological manipulation.

"You really think I'm pretty?" she asked, her sarcastic tone in stark contrast with her flirtatious words.

The henchman who had dangled her chair over the hole in the floor earlier grabbed her by the hair, forcing her mouth open with his other hand as the General crossed over to a table.

Natasha forced herself to remain calm as General Luchkov picked up a set of pliers.

"Tell Lermontov we don't need him to move the tanks," he said. "Tell him he is out. Well, you might have to write it down."

He clicked the pliers threateningly, his dark intentions clear. Natasha jerked in the hold of the man holding her mouth open, her eyes wide as she stared at the General. She was still confident she could overpower the three men without too much effort, but it was extra effort that she did not look forward too. She was contemplating what to do, when an unexpected noise broke the tense silence.

_Ring ring. Ring ring._

The henchman stood off at the back of the room looked down in confusion. The General turned to glare at him. The henchman pulled out his mobile phone and put it to his ear, blushing bright red as the General continued to scowl at him.

"Yes?" muttered the henchman. There was a couple of seconds of silence as whoever was on the other end of the phone spoke. The man's expression quickly changed to one of confusion. "It's for her."

The General slammed the pliers back down on the table, stomping over angrily to where the henchman was standing and snatching the mobile phone out of his hand.

"You listen carefully!" he snapped down the phone.

Whatever he was going to say next was apparently cut off by the person making the call. His expression changed from anger to shock to one of unease so quickly that Natasha might have missed it, had she not been trained to notice such shifts in micro expressions.

Natasha tensed as the General walked towards her, but instead of attacking her, he simply placed the phone between her shoulder and ear, allowing her to speak to the mystery caller.

"We need you to come in," said Phil.

_Seriously?!_

Natasha exhaled sharply with annoyance. She had told Phil that morning over breakfast that she was working a job in Russia for the next few days. She had not told him explicitly that she was not to be contacted, but it had been pretty clearly implied.

"Are you kidding?" she snapped. "I'm working."

"This takes precedence," said Phil.

His tone was quiet, restrained, but Natasha thought she could hear a slight tremble to it. She frowned to herself, suddenly wishing that they were face-to-face so that she could read him more easily.

All the same, she  _was_ working, and for Phil to try to tear her away from it was unprofessional.

"I'm in the middle of an interrogation," she said. "This moron is giving me everything."

General Luchkov puffed out his chest as he blustered indignantly.

"I don't... give everything!" he stammered.

Natasha winced internally, having not realised that the General could understand English. Figuring that her cover was by now well and truly blown, she shot him a condescending look before turning her attention back to her annoying flatmate on the phone.

"Look, you can't pull me out of this right now," she said.

She heard Phil sigh on the other end of the phone, a gentle burst of static that somehow managed to sound sad; a small sound filled with words he would rather leave unspoken.

"Natasha," he said quietly. "Barton's been compromised."

Natasha's whole body went cold, the tiny hairs on her arms and legs instantly standing on end as Phil's words sliced through to the very centre of her mind. Her heart skipped a beat, possibly two, before kicking back into action at double speed, pumping adrenaline through her system so fast she could almost feel herself shaking with the sheer chemical overload of it.

All thoughts of continuing interrogating General Luchkov were immediately dismissed.

Clint was in danger.

_Clint._

"Let me put you on hold," she said, surprising herself with how steady her voice sounded as she nodded to General Luchkov, a silent request for him to take the mobile phone away from her.

As soon as he stepped within reach, she smashed her foot into his knee, causing him to collapse to the floor with a shout of pain. She head-butted him hard for good measure, jumping to her feet and kicking the henchman who was stood closest. Not bothering to look at how badly he was injured, she turned her attention to the second henchman and span around on her heels.

The chair that she was tied to smashed hard into his body, knocking him sideways in surprise. The first henchman struggled back up from the floor and rushed towards her. Just before he reached her, Natasha turned her back to him and slammed the chair leg down onto his foot, throwing her head back and head-butting him in the face as he let out of a yell of pain.

She gathered her legs underneath her and flipped herself over, smashing the chair apart on the warehouse floor and breaking free from the bonds tying her to the chair. The first henchman pounced on her once more, wrapping an arm around her, but Natasha simply grabbed his hand and pulled it back forcefully, letting out a grunt of satisfaction as she felt the man's bones breaking. She span herself around and punched him square in the face, sending him crashing to the floor, unconscious.

Before henchman number two had the chance to react to the fact his comrade had just been incapacitated, Natasha had already deftly leapt up onto his shoulders, wrapping her thighs around his body and using her strength to flip him over onto the ground, knocking him out.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw General Luchkov staggering to his feet. Grabbing a length of chain that was hanging from the ceiling, she wrapped it around the General's leg before grabbing him by the shoulders and tossing him down the hole in the floor. She was fairly certain she heard his leg break.

"Where's Barton now?" she asked, picking up the mobile phone and her shoes as she quickly made her way towards the stairs.

"We don't know," said Phil.

"But he's alive?" she asked sharply, slipping on her shoes before running down the stairs as quickly as possible, reaching the ground floor of the warehouse in less than 30 seconds.

"We think so," said Phil. "I'll explain everything in a minute, face to face. I'm in a Quinjet. Just about to land in the field by the warehouse, next to your plane."

She heard the phone click as Phil terminated the call.

She ran out of the warehouse in the direction of the field, thanking any deity that was listening that she had chosen to land her Quinjet so close to the warehouse. She wondered briefly how Phil knew her exact location, before remembering that her bra had a tracking device installed. She assumed the Quinjet's were similarly kitted out with tracking technology; it would explain how Phil was able to see through her Quinjet's shielding.

She reached the field just as Phil's Quinjet landed next to hers. She ran towards it, ruining her shoes in the mud but not caring for a second.

Clint was compromised. Phil was pulling her out of a mission. Whatever was going on, it had to be big.

The Quinjet ramp lowered as she approached it. She ran up it, breathing out a sigh of relief that quickly turned to an anxious hitch of breath when she saw how many SHIELD agents were crammed into the Quinjet with Phil. There had to be at least 20 agents in total; an unusually high number.

"What's going on?" she asked, without preamble.

Phil's eyes darted to the side, a vein in his forehead throbbing slightly.

"I flew here as fast as I could," he babbled. "Broke the sound barrier a couple of times. From the US to Russia in less than 200 minutes – it's possible, who knew?"

Natasha cut him off with a gentle hand on his arm. She could only remember one other time Phil had acted so strangely: when they had found Steve in the ice. Whatever was happening now, it must be serious.

"Phil," she said quietly. "You said Clint was compromised. Tell me what's going on."

Phil looked down at her hand on his arm before sighing, looking up to meet her eyes for the first time.

"You might want to sit down," he said. "I need you to just listen to what I'm about to say, because it's going to sound insane."

Natasha sat on the nearest available surface, steeling herself for whatever news Phil was about to break. Countless scenarios were racing through her mind: Clint taken hostage perhaps, or injured, maybe paralysed, or tortured, or-

"Clint has been brainwashed and abducted by an alien."

Natasha's mouth fell open as she stared at Phil in disbelief, before she closed it with a snarl, rising to her feet so quickly that Phil flinched.

"Quit messing around," she snapped angrily. "Tell me what's going on!"

Phil placed both hands on her shoulders, forcing her to face him, but it was the earnest, desperate look in his eyes that made Natasha stop and actually listen, rather than the presence of his hands on her.

"I'm not messing around," he said, his bottom lip wobbling in his effort not to break down. "A few hours ago, Clint and a scientist named Erik Selvig were abducted from a SHIELD facility that was testing a piece of technology called the Tesseract. The Tesseract opened up a wormhole through space and an alien, Loki, came through. Somehow, he managed to enslave Clint and Dr Selvig through some form of mind control. They escaped from the facility and managed to slip away."

Natasha stared at Phil for several long seconds, his steady blue eyes and the feel of his hands on her shoulders the only things stopping her from punching him in the face or laughing hysterically.

A wormhole?

Mind control?

An  _alien_?

It was madness, preposterous, almost hilariously insane, and yet Phil was not laughing, his face more deadly serious than she had ever seen it.

"You're being serious, aren't you?" she asked. "An  _alien_?"

Phil nodded.

"We've known of the existence of this particular race for a couple of years now," he said. "This isn't the first time Loki's come to Earth. A few years ago, he and his brother Thor touched down in New Mexico."

Natasha frowned, her mind grappling with this new information.

"Hang on, Thor and Loki?" she said. "Like the Norse Gods?"

Phil nodded again, letting out a tired sigh.

"The very same," he said. "But like I said: they're technically aliens, not Gods. Not that that particularity matters. The facts are this: Loki attacked our base, he kidnapped our men and he's taken the Tesseract. It has the potential energy to wipe out the planet. Director Fury says we're at war."

Natasha closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose, trying to get her head around the facts

This was just like any other mission, she reasoned. Bigger and more complicated, admittedly, but missions were simply problems that needed to be solved. They had a problem. They just needed to solve it.

The biggest problem, at least in Natasha's mind, was Clint's predicament. Clint had been kidnapped, his mind taken over by some alien or God or  _whatever_. Her chest constricted in panic as she tried to imagine what he might be going through. How did mind control work? Was Clint in pain? Was he aware of what he was doing? Was he screaming inside his own skull as his body was forced to obey commands given to it by Loki? She shuddered violently, suddenly overtaken by a wave of nausea.

They had to save Clint, by whatever means necessary. Right now.

"What happens now?" she asked.

Phil reached behind him and pulled out a folder. She read the title printed on the outside of the brown cover.

**[TOP SECRET]**

**Avengers Initiative**

**Clearance level: SHIELD Level 9 and over**

"Director Fury has activated the Avengers Initiative," said Phil. "The Avengers Initiative was first proposed a few years ago, as a way of dealing with global crises too difficult for ordinary men and women to handle. The idea is to bring together a taskforce of extraordinary people to work as a team – people with superhuman abilities, world-class skills, the very best minds. The Avengers Initiative currently only has four members who Director Fury saw fit to include on the list, but our top priority now is gathering those four people together to work as a team."

Natasha sat up a little straighter, nodding curtly.

"Who are the four members?" she said.

Phil pulled out a set of photographs and handed the first one to her. She took it, recognising the person in the photograph immediately; she had spent the last year living in a flat two floors below his in New York.

"Captain Steve Rogers," said Phil. "The best soldier the US Army has ever had. Apparently, he contacted SHIELD to offer his services last month. His time in the ice doesn't seem to have dampened the effects of the serum at all; in recent tests of his strength, he accidentally broke a lot of the equipment."

He handed Natasha the second photograph, depicting a man wearing expensive-looking sunglasses, with dark brown hair, brown eyes and a goatee. Paper clipped to the man's picture was a smaller photo showing a flying metal suit.

"This is Tony Stark, also known as Iron Man," said Phil. "You might have heard of him. He's a pain in the ass but he's also a genius and he developed this suit. It has the capability to fly as fast as a plane, with the strength of a machine, but with the dexterity of a human being."

Natasha nodded, holding out her hand for the next photograph. It showed another man, also with brown hair and brown eyes, except this man's features were softer, his glasses plain and simple as opposed to the flashy sunglasses of Tony Stark. Attached to this photograph was a picture of a huge green humanoid being.

"This is Bruce Banner, also known as the Hulk," said Phil. "He tried to recreate the serum that made Steve Rogers into Captain America, but it didn't go to plan. When he's not that creature though, the guy's like a Stephen Hawking."

Natasha stared at the picture of the Hulk, entranced by a horrified kind of fascination.

"Who's the fourth member?" she asked, finally tearing her eyes away from the photograph.

Phil gave her a small smile as he handed her the final photo.

"You," he said. "Director Fury and I agree – SHIELD has never had an agent as skilled as you in the field before. Ever. You're on the team."

Natasha sat stunned as she stared down at her own photograph. She half expected Phil to turn around and tell her that he was kidding, but his expression was completely serious.

"I need you to go and get Bruce Banner," said Phil. "The Tesseract emits a type of gamma radiation, which is something of a speciality of Dr Banner's. To reiterate, we're calling in Bruce for his scientific mind only, not for the Hulk."

Natasha sat still for a moment, struggling with what her heart versus her mind was telling her. In the end, her heart won out.

"We need to rescue Clint," she said.

Phil shook his head immediately, causing her heart to sink.

"We need to save the world," he countered. "I promise, we'll do everything we can to save Clint, but you need to see the bigger picture here. This is bigger than Clint. Loki has the Tesseract. The whole world is at stake."

Natasha took a deep, steadying breath, forcing her mind to marble, forcing herself to see things rationally, before nodding tensely.

"What's the plan?" she asked.

"Dr Banner is in Calcutta, India," said Phil. "Fly there in your Quinjet. Bring him in. These agents will go with you to provide back-up if necessary. I'll fly back to the US and bring in Stark and Rogers."

Natasha nodded curtly, hugging Phil briefly before exiting the plane, leading the group of 20 SHIELD agents onto her own Quinjet.

It was time to go to India.

 

* * *

 

Flying at maximum speed, the journey from Moscow to Calcutta took just 4 hours.

During that time, she was able to find out Dr Banner's last known address and put together a more appropriate outfit for wandering the Indian slums.

She always carried outfits suitable for various cultures with her when she went on overnight missions, just in case situations like this arose. Phil had always teased her for it, but it seemed that her extreme preparedness was finally paying off.

She had formed the basis of a plan. Her first consideration was to minimise the risk of civilian casualties. That meant luring Dr Banner to a location with a lower population density. She also had to ensure there was a way for the other SHIELD agents to hear what was going on when she confronted Dr Banner. They decided the simplest way to go about it would be to use the discreetly designed version of SHIELD's usual comms device.

She would speak to him alone, but with the other agents nearby in case things got ugly. She hoped it would not come to that. She was not sure she fancied her chances against the Hulk.

They landed in the night-time.

She found a shack right on the edge of Calcutta. It was in a good location, far enough away from other houses to be considered a low risk to civilians, with enough cover afforded by nearby trees to hide the back-up agents.

The family were surprised when she entered their house without knocking, but quickly agreed to leave when she produced a thick wad of Indian Rupees. She caught sight of the youngest member of the family, her heart speeding up a little as a new plan formed in her head.

"Excuse me," she asked the mother, in near perfect Bengali. "May I ask your daughter to do a job for me? It's easy and I'll pay."

The mother looked hesitant, her hand tightening around her daughter's hand as she squinted at Natasha warily.

Natasha pulled out another wad of cash, holding it just out of reach. The woman's eyes widened when she saw it; it was easily what the family would earn in a year.

"I just need her to bring someone here," she said. "He won't hurt her, I promise."

After a few long seconds, the woman nodded, letting go of her daughter's hand and leaving the shack, taking the rest of the family with her, minus her daughter.

Natasha almost felt bad for manipulating her like that – both for using a child for her purposes, and for bribing the family with money – but she hardened her heart, reminding herself that Clint's life depended on everything going to plan.

Clint was with the Tesseract, and they needed Dr Banner to track down the Tesseract.

Problem. Solution.

She squatted down to the little girl's level, pressing a lump of money into her hand.

"I need you to find this man and bring him back to your house," she said quietly. "He's a doctor. Tell him your father's ill and that he needs your help."

She showed the child a picture of Dr Banner and reeled off his last known address, hoping fervently that the little girl's memory was good.

The little girl nodded, grabbing the money and running off into the night, her long dark hair fanning out behind her.

It was a tense wait. Natasha paced around the shack nervously, desperately trying to keep her mind on the mission, but thoughts of Clint inevitably crept up on her, unbidden. Was he still alive? What was Loki making him do? Where were they?

Natasha had spent the previous two weeks at the Bartons' farmhouse. She and Clint had gone on walks together, cooked together, spent long nights playing board games, listening to music and just talking.

She could not remember if she had hugged him before leaving.

Half an hour passed. She stowed her handgun under a table. She was just starting to think that perhaps the little girl had run off with the money without upholding her end of the bargain, when she heard the pattering of little feet approach the shack, followed by the solid footfalls of someone much larger.

She froze in her position at the back of the shack, listening intently.

She heard the little girl run through the shack, saw her leap up onto a window sill and wink cheekily at her before jumping out of the window and scampering off into the night, the money still clenched in her tiny hand.

Natasha smiled.

From the next room, she heard a man sigh softly.

"You should have got paid up front, Banner."

Natasha chose that moment to step forward out from behind the hanging fabrics, emerging in the same room as Bruce Banner.

"You know, for a man who's supposed to be avoiding stress, you picked a hell of a place to settle." She kept her tone light and friendly, as nonthreatening as possible.

Bruce turned around to face her, his brown eyes sweeping over her calmly as he put his bag down on the floor. If he was surprised or disturbed to see her, he hid it well. He dragged a hand through his curly brown hair, before pushing his glasses further up his nose.

"Avoiding stress isn't the secret," he said.

His voice was much gentler, much softer than she had been expecting. It was hard to imagine this mild-mannered man turning into an uncontrollable green monster. Then again, she probably did not look like a highly-skilled killing machine, either. Appearances could be deceptive.

"Then what is it?" she quipped. "Yoga?"

The corners of Bruce's eyes crinkled up in a wry smile.

"You brought me to the edge of the city," he said, completely ignoring her comment about yoga. "Smart. I assume the whole place is surrounded?"

Natasha shook her head, removing her shawl and dumping it on the floor, a symbolic gesture of openness and shedding disguises.

"It's just you and me," she lied.

If Bruce suspected that there were in fact 20 armed SHIELD agents surrounding the shack, he did not show it.

"And your actress buddy?" he said. "Is she a spy too? They start that young?"

She thought back to the little girl. She had looked around 5 or 6 years old. When Natasha was that age, she had already started learning how to pick locks, how to shoot, how to engage in hand-to-hand combat.

"I did," she said, deciding to tell the truth this time.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Natasha Romanoff."

Bruce was silent for a moment, and Natasha found herself fervently hoping that her reputation had not preceded her on this occasion. Luck did not appear to be on her side, as when Bruce spoke, he suddenly sounded a lot more closed off than he had a moment before.

"Are you here to kill me, Miss Romanoff?" he said. "Because that's not going to work out for everyone."

Natasha shook her head immediately, hoping that Bruce could see through her body language that she was being genuine.

"No, no. Of course not," she said. "I'm here on behalf of SHIELD."

Bruce sighed heavily, ducking his head in a way that denoted both tiredness and resignation.

"SHIELD," he echoed. "How did they find me?"

"We never lost you, Doctor," she said, keeping her tone light and friendly. "We've kept our distance. Even helped keep some other interested parties off your scent."

Bruce looked up, staring at her incredulously.

"Why?" he said.

"Nick Fury seems to trust you," shrugged Natasha. "But now we need you to come in."

Bruce cocked his head to the side, as if considering it.

"What if I say no?" he asked cautiously.

Natasha's smile widened a little further as she desperately tried not to let her nerves show. They needed Bruce in order to find Clint. She would not let him refuse; Clint's life hung in the balance.

"I'll persuade you," she said.

Bruce paused, looking down at the floor as if he were almost ashamed.

"And what if the... the  _other guy_  says no?" he said.

Natasha's heart rate elevated slightly, but she forced herself to focus on the facts that had been given to her in Bruce Banner's SHIELD file.

"You've been more than a year without an incident," she said. "I don't think you want to break that streak."

Bruce sighed heavily, a litany of unspoken regrets poured into the single exhale.

"Well, I don't every time get what I want," he said quietly.

Natasha pulled out her mobile phone from her pocket, opening up a picture of the Tesseract that Phil had sent her earlier.

"Doctor, we're facing a potential global catastrophe," she said, cutting to the chase.

Bruce laughed softly.

"Well, those I actively try to avoid," he said.

"This is the Tesseract," said Natasha, sliding the phone across the table towards Bruce. "It has the potential energy to wipe out the planet."

Bruce picked up the phone and studied the picture closely.

"What does Fury want me to do, swallow it?" he asked, looking puzzled.

Natasha sat down at the table, keeping her hands still in her lap, pointedly ignoring the gun that she had strapped to the underside of the table before Bruce had arrived.

"He wants you to find it," she corrected him. "It's been taken. It emits a gamma signature that's too weak for us to trace. There's no one that knows gamma radiation like you do. If there was, that's where I'd be."

Bruce removed his glasses, cleaning them on the sleeve of his shirt slowly.

"So, Fury isn't after the monster?" he said.

Natasha smiled and shook her head.

"Not that he's told me," she said.

Bruce raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"And he tells you everything?" he said, that doubtful look returning to his face.

Natasha exhaled carefully through her nose, trying not to let her stress or irritation show. This was moving too slowly. They needed to hurry. Clint may not have much time.

"Talk to Fury," she said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "He needs you on this."

Bruce squinted at her, his big brown eyes filled with distrust.

"He needs me in a cage?" he said.

Natasha shook her head.

"No one's going to put you in a-" she began.

Bruce slammed his hands down on the table so quickly that she jumped, literally  _jumped_ , in her chair. The loud bang was accompanied by an equally loud shout as he yelled in her face.

"Stop lying to me!"

Without thinking, Natasha snatched up the gun from its hiding place under the table, flicking off the safety catch and wrapping her finger around the trigger in less than a second. Her heart was beating wildly, a mixture of stress about Clint's situation and panic about her more immediate well-being if Bruce were the transform into his green alter-ego.

Strangely, however, Bruce did not look anything near angry. In fact, as he smiled sweetly, he looked extremely serene, perhaps even a little guilty. Natasha did not loosen her grip on her gun.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was mean. I just wanted to see what you'd do."

Natasha let out a shaky breath, still not relinquishing her grip on her gun just yet, adrenaline still surging through her system.

"Why don't we do this the easy way, where you don't use that," said Bruce, pointing slowly at the gun, "And the other guy doesn't make a mess. OK? Natasha?"

The panicked fog slowly cleared from Natasha's mind at the sound of her name. She slowly lowered her weapon, pressing her finger to her ear to speak into the comms device that had been relaying her and Bruce's conversation to the SHIELD agents stationed outside.

"Stand down," she muttered. "We're good here."

Unexpectedly, Bruce let out a soft snort of laughter.

"Just you and me, huh?" he said, raising his eyebrow.

Natasha folded her arms defensively.

"It was a precaution," she said.

Bruce smiled, his features lighting up as he looked at her steadily.

"It was smart," he said. "I'm in."

Natasha's heart skipped as his words sank in, something like hope flaring in her chest.

"You're in?" she repeated.

Bruce sighed and nodded.

"The gamma rays aren't going to find themselves, are they?" he pointed out. "When do we go?"

Natasha was already on her feet, leading the way out of the shack towards the trees.

The Quinjet unshielded as she approached. She heard Bruce let out an impressed-sounding whistle as he followed her.

"Nice plane," he said, as the ramp lowered and they walked aboard.

Natasha did not reply, walking straight up to the cockpit and gesturing for Bruce to follow her.

"You can sit in here with me," she said. "I think you'll like it better than being stuck back there with the rabble."

She jabbed her thumb at the 20 or so SHIELD agents who were strapping themselves in at the back of the plane. Bruce nodded gratefully and smiled.

He was silent as she took off, watching out of the window as they rose up and away into the sky, Calcutta shrinking below them until it was nothing more than a web of lights in the distance.

As they settled down into a smooth flight trajectory, Bruce turned towards her.

"What's going on, aside from the Tesseract?" he asked, his eyes boring into her.

Natasha tensed, unused to such close scrutiny.

"What do you mean?" she said.

Bruce sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"The Tesseract, yeah, it's important, but you're acting like this is something personal for you," he said. "What's going on?"

Natasha was silent for a long while, her back rod-ram straight and her muscles tense.

"A friend of mine has been kidnapped and brainwashed by the same guy who stole the Tesseract," she said finally. "His name's Clint."

Bruce frowned beside her, scratching the back of his neck.

"Clint Barton?" he said.

Natasha turned to stare at him in surprise.

"Yes," she said. "You know him?"

Bruce nodded, picking at his sleeve.

"I met Clint a couple of times after my accident," he said. "He was sent to check up on me, look after me as I adjusted mentally to having this... disorder. He's a good man."

Natasha suddenly remembered something that Clint had said to her that first night they had first met, in Sao Paulo.

_I'm a monster._

_I have a friend, his name is Bruce. He says the same thing about himself._

_And is he a monster?_

_He's one of the sweetest, kindest men I know._

Natasha's throat swelled with emotion. It seemed that Clint was connected to almost every part of her life. Everything was coming full circle, in a terrible sort of way.

"You should sleep," she said numbly. "You're going to have a hard day of complicated work ahead of you tomorrow. You're going to meet some new people too: Captain America, Iron Man, it's going to be intense."

Bruce scrunched up his coat and placed it behind his head, a makeshift pillow.

"Is the plane on autopilot?" he asked.

Natasha nodded.

"Then you should sleep too," he said.

Natasha gave him a tight-lipped smile, looking out of the window into the darkness as Bruce drifted off to sleep beside her.

As she listened to his soft snores, she wondered if Clint was sleeping too. Did brainwashed people require sleep? Would Loki  _allow_ him to sleep? Was Clint even still alive? Had anyone contacted Laura yet?

Fear and horror swirled inside her, making it impossible to relax even as her eyelids got heavier and heavier.

At around 3am, however, sheer exhaustion claimed her.

She fell into a sleep full of nightmares.

 

* * *

 

She woke to the sound of an automated voice telling her that they were 10 miles away from their destination.

She blinked blearily and rubbed sleep from her eyes, squinting out of the window. The Helicarrier was floating on the surface of the ocean below, very obviously visible in the clear conditions.

She yawned widely, reaching into her bag and pulling out two bottles of water and some cereal bars. A sleepy-sounding snuffle next to her alerted her to the fact that Bruce had awoken too, so she passed him one of the bottles of water and a cereal bar with a small smile.

They drank and ate in silence, both of them looking out of the window as the autopilot took them to their destination, both lost in their own thoughts. As they descended, Natasha kept a hand on the controls, but the autopilot seemed to be working just fine, and they landed gently on the runway of the Helicarrier.

"Agent Coulson, please come to the bridge as soon as possible," said a voice over the radio. "We're starting the face trace."

Natasha unbuckled her seat belt, standing up and stretching out the kinks that had formed in her back overnight.

"OK, everyone," she said, addressing the 20 SHIELD agents in the back of the plane. "Go to the bridge and make yourselves useful."

The back of the Quinjet lowered and the agents quickly departed, marching off to where they were needed. She and Bruce exited the plane last, with Bruce sticking close to her as he looked around cautiously.

Planes were taxiing around them, soldiers moving around doing jobs that Natasha did not entirely understand; it must be intimidating for Bruce, she realised, and she decided to redouble her efforts in making him feel comfortable.

Around 20 metres away, she saw Phil and Steve walking down the ramp of their own Quinjet, looking much less tired and rumpled than she felt. She touched Bruce's arm gently and changed direction to walk towards them.

Phil and Steve smiled as they saw her approach and she gave them a wave as they drew level.

"Agent Romanoff, Captain Rogers," said Phil, by way of introduction.

Natasha was careful not to let any emotion betray her features as she realised that Phil still did not know that she and Steve had known one another for over a year. She hoped that Steve would not let the cat out of the bag and cause awkwardness. She shot him a warning look, to which he thankfully replied with a minute nod.

"Ma'am," said Steve, his eyes twinkling as he used the old form of address that he had actually stopped using months beforehand.

"Hi," Natasha replied smoothly, before remembering the radio message she had overheard earlier and turning to Phil. "They need you on the bridge. They're starting the face trace."

Phil nodded, giving her a smile before walking off in the direction of the bridge.

As soon as he was out of earshot, she gave Steve a proper smile, elbowing him gently in the ribs.

"You know Phil's like your biggest fan, right?" she said. "Did he ask you to sign his Captain America trading cards yet?"

Steve pulled a face half way between confusion and surprise.

"Trading cards?" he said.

Natasha smiled as she remembered how Phil had once made her sit down with him at their flat and go through the entire pack of cards together. It had been an educational Saturday afternoon.

"They're vintage," she said. "He's very proud."

Natasha turned around to see Bruce hanging back, looking awkward and bemused at all the activity going on around him. She walked over to him, with Steve in tow.

"Dr Banner," said Steve, holding out his hand as soon as they were within touching distance.

Bruce blinked at him owlishly and shook his hand.

"Oh, yeah, hi," he mumbled awkwardly. "They told me you'd be coming."

Steve's reply sounded much more self-assured.

"Word is, you can find the cube," he said, giving the Doctor a kind smile.

Bruce looked down at the ground, a red blush creeping up his neck as he chewed his lip nervously.

"Is that the only word on me?" he asked sheepishly.

"Only word I care about," Steve said adamantly, making it clear that he held no prejudices against Bruce for his Hulk-positive status.

Natasha suddenly wondered if Steve felt an affinity with Bruce. They were both outsiders; both different in their own ways.

Bruce gave Steve a grateful smile, before gesturing around at the modern-looking Helicarrier.

"It must be strange for you, all this," said Bruce.

Steve looked around, taking in a troop of soldiers that were running by in formation.

"Well, this is actually kind of familiar," he admitted.

A familiar siren sounded in the distance, signalling that the Helicarrier was about to take off. She cleared her throat, attracting the men's attention.

"Gentlemen, you might want to step inside in a minute," she said. "It's going to get a little hard to breathe."

As if on cue, the Helicarrier's engines started powering up, the four turbines slowly starting to spin, building up speed for the grand take-off.

"Is this a submarine?" asked Steve, his eyes wide with amazement.

Bruce snorted with laughter, although in reality he looked far from amused.

"Really?" he said. "They want me in a submerged, pressurised metal container?"

The two men walked towards the edge of the Helicarrier's runway, peering over the edge to watch the massive turbines whir into life. Natasha felt the slight lurch when the machine first started to rise up from the water. Steve turned around to stare at her, his mouth hanging open with astonishment.

Bruce shook his head with bemusement, his eyebrows shooting up so high they almost disappeared into his curly fringe.

"Oh no," he sighed. "This is much worse."

The Helicarrier began to rise higher, finally leaving the water completely. Steve and Bruce hurried back away from the edge, following wordlessly when Natasha led the way inside.

The Helicarrier was an impressive piece of machinery. Capable of acting as a boat and an aircraft, it was large enough to contain numerous floors of offices, holding cells, science labs and accommodation rooms. It had been designed to be a floating hub for SHIELD in emergency situations just like this one, and Natasha found herself strangely relieved to be there, as if it was a place of safety, a place from which all their problems could be solved.

They entered the main flight control area – known as the bridge. Natasha quickly recognised several faces: Phil, Maria and Director Fury himself.

"All engines operating. SHIELD Emergency Protocol 193.6 in effect," said Maria to the room at large, before turning to Director Fury to address him directly. "We're at level, sir."

Director Fury nodded, looking somewhat like a King stood in the dead centre of the bridge; a captain standing proud in his ship.

"Good," he said. "Let's vanish."

Maria turned towards the bank of agents who were presumably in charge of flying the Helicarrier.

"Engage retro-reflection panels," she ordered.

Natasha heard a faint clicking sound as the retro-reflective panels that covered every inch of the ship activated, projecting an image of the background onto all surfaces of the Helicarrier, rendering it near-invisible to the naked eye.

Her attention was drawn back to the present as Director Fury walked towards where she, Steve and Bruce were standing. The Director smiled at the two newbies, reaching out to shake their hands.

"Gentlemen," he greeted, before turning his attention specifically to Bruce. "Doctor, thank you for coming."

Bruce nodded shyly, still not looking entirely comfortable.

"Thanks for asking nicely," said Bruce. "So, how long am I staying?"

"Once we get our hands on the Tesseract, you're in the wind," Director Fury reassured him.

Bruce smiled, looking a little perkier at that news.

"Where are you with that?" he asked.

"We're sweeping every wirelessly accessible camera on the planet," said Phil, walking over to join the conversation. "Cell phones, laptops. If it's connected to a satellite, it's eyes and ears for us."

Natasha squatted down to look at the nearest computer screen. It showed the progress of the worldwide face sweep in real time; countless images from satellites, CCTV cameras, phones and webcams flashing across the screen every second. Next to the sweep were the photographs of the faces they were trying to get a match on: Clint and Loki. Natasha reached out to gently touch Clint's face on the screen, her fingers ghosting over his features, disappointingly cold and flat rather than warm and real.

"That's still not going to find them in time," she murmured.

Bruce cocked his head to the side, chewing on his lip as he grappled with the problem.

"You have to narrow your field," he said. "How many spectrometers do you have access to?"

"How many are there?" asked Director Fury, obviously having no more of an idea what a spectrometer was than Natasha did.

"Call every lab you know," said Bruce, rolling up his sleeves. "Tell them to put the spectrometers on the roof and calibrate them for gamma rays. I'll rough out a tracking algorithm – basic cluster recognition. At least we could rule out a few places. Do you have somewhere for me to work?"

Director Fury smiled, seemingly pleased with how well Bruce had stepped up to the job. Natasha was extremely thankful as well. Bruce Banner was a genius. If anyone could help them find Clint, it was him.

"Agent Romanoff, could you show Dr Banner to his laboratory, please?" asked Director Fury.

Natasha swept past Bruce towards the door leading to the science bay. She heard him fall into step behind her.

"You're gonna love it, Doc," she said. "We've got all the toys."

Due to the size of the Helicarrier, it actually took a good few minutes to reach the lab, but when they did, Natasha could not hold back a smile at Bruce's gasp of delight. He rushed into the room like a child rushing downstairs on Christmas Day, his brown eyes wide and bright as he took in all the scientific equipment at his disposal.

"This is amazing," he enthused. "Way better than anything in Calcutta."

Natasha smiled. If Bruce was happy, then that meant the lab must contain everything he needed to do his work, and if he had everything he needed to do his job, then that meant that Clint was one step closer to being rescued.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" she offered, although she severely doubted she would be much help in developing a tracking algorithm.

She was a woman of many talents, but advanced computer science was not one of them.

"Oh, um, no thanks," said Bruce, turning around with a look of surprise, as if he had forgotten she was there. "I have everything I need here."

Natasha nodded and exited the lab, closing the door behind her to give Bruce some quiet and privacy in which to work.

She wandered back towards the bridge, feeling at a loss at what to do. She was a field agent. She got involved when stuff needed to get done. The planning, the strategy, that was done by other people. A numb feeling settled in her stomach, a mixture of uselessness, frustration and anxiety.

Upon entering the bridge, she caught sight of a familiar bob of neat, dark brown hair and made a beeline for its owner.

"Maria," she said, full of false bravado and cheer. "How're you? How's Brock? You two still doing extra  _fitness training_  together?"

Maria turned to face her with a smile, her bright blue eyes sparkling.

"I'm OK, considering," she said. "And Brock's just as manly and testosterone-filled as always."

She winked, causing Natasha to giggle briefly before she caught sight of Clint's face on one of the computer screens and the reality of the situation slammed back home once more.

"How're  _you_ doing?" asked Maria softly, apparently seeing straight through Natasha's cheerful facade. "I know how close you and Clint are. This must be torture for you."

Natasha bowed her head, her vision blurring with tears that she blinked away rapidly.

"I'm terrified," she admitted quietly, after a long pause. "Aliens, mind control – this is way more than I've ever trained for. I can't stop worrying about Clint. He's like family to me. I don't know what I'd do if-"

She stopped herself, unable to finish the sentence –  _if he were dead._

It was too terrible, too horrifying to think about.

Clint was family.

He could not be dead. After Elena, after James, she could not bear to lose Clint too. He was a good man. He had a family; Laura, Cooper and Lila needed him. He could not be gone.

Maria put a firm hand on Natasha's arm, squeezing gently.

"Natasha, you can do this," she said. "You've just got to take things one challenge at a time. Break it down into chunks. Right now, we're doing everything we can to find him. We're looking through the entire world's cameras for Clint and Loki's faces. They'll turn up eventually. It's just a matter of time."

As it turned out, Maria was right.

Hours later, the system got a hit.

Loki had been caught on camera in Stuttgart, Germany.

 

* * *

 

Natasha, Steve and another SHIELD agent whose name Natasha was not entirely sure of arrived at Stuttgart in a Quinjet just as Loki started speaking to a huge crowd of kneeling civilians.

It was a strange sight, to see so many people kneeling in submissive silence, trapped in a square, surrounded by around five different projections of Loki's form. The god was dressed in gold, green and black armour, with an ornate golden helmet on his head, topped with two long, curved horns.

"Go," ordered Natasha, lowering the ramp of the Quinjet as they hovered above the square.

Steve jumped out of the Quinjet, landing in front an old man just as Loki attempted to blast him with a shot of blue light from his apparently-alien sceptre.

The blue ball of energy was deflected off Steve's shield, bouncing back at Loki and knocking him to the ground. Natasha watched from above as Steve and Loki started to converse with one another.

She was unable to hear what they were saying, so she flew the Quinjet lower, hoping that perhaps the Quinjet's microphones may be able to pick up their voices if she got close enough. She saw Loki's hand tighten around the sceptre, the end glowing a dangerous shade of blue once more.

She gritted her teeth, flicking the switch on the control panel in front of her that deployed the gun from the bottom of the Quinjet. Expertly manipulating the joystick with her other hand, she aimed the weapon squarely at Loki.

"Loki, drop the weapon and stand down," she ordered, talking into a microphone that fed into the Quinjet's speaker system.

Loki's eyes snapped up to meet hers, an ugly rage flashing across them as he pointed the sceptre at the Quinjet and aimed a blast towards her. Natasha twisted the Quinjet's controls sharply, tilting the plane onto its side, the bolt of blue energy whooshing past with just inches to spare. As she wrestled with the plane's controls, bringing it back level, she watched the scene unfolding in front of her helplessly.

Loki and Steve were fighting, and Loki was winning. If she was not aware of Steve's super-strength, she doubted she would have known that he possessed it. Loki was throwing him around like a rag doll, picking him up, punching him and kicking him as if it were nothing.

Natasha shivered. They looked so human that it was easy to forget that Asgardians were alien, but Loki's strength was clearly no match for a human, even a super-powered one like Steve. A wave of panic washed over her as she imagined the horrors that this cruel alien god might have imposed upon Clint. Clint was helpless, utterly helpless, she realised; weak and meaningless and pathetic to a being like Loki.

Loki could snap Clint's neck and he would think nothing more of it than a human stepping on an ant.

Natasha brought the Quinjet down closer, worrying her lower lip between her teeth as she watched Steve get kicked across the square. She tried to aim the plane's gun at Loki but Steve kept getting in the way of her aim. She dared not fire in case she hit Steve by accident.

"The guy's all over the place," she said, wincing when Steve took a vicious punch to the gut.

She cocked her head to the side, suddenly confused as music started playing through the Quinjet's speakers. She frowned, shaking her head as if it might stop the sound, but no, Shoot to Thrill by AC/DC continued playing loud and clear. She clenched her fists as two words flashed up across the screen – PA OVERRIDE – twisting around in her seat just in time to see something red and gold fly past the window.

Tony Stark swooped down into the square, blasting Loki with the repulsors built into the Iron Man suit's hands, finally knocking him down to the ground.

Natasha watched as Steve staggered to his feet to stand next to Tony. Loki slowly raised his hands in surrender, using his powers to seemingly make his battle armour disappear. Steve snatched the sceptre out of his hand, the motion kicking Natasha into action. She flew the Quinjet down low, landing in the middle of the square that had long since been deserted by civilians.

She lowered the ramp at the back of the Quinjet, pulling out her gun as Steve and Tony walked aboard with Loki held between them.

"Sit down there," ordered Steve, pointing to a seat at the very back of the plane, furthest away from the Quinjet's controls.

For a moment, it looked as though Loki might refuse, but then he cast a glance at Tony's Iron Man suit and relented, sinking down into the chair without a word.

Natasha flicked on comms and connected through to the Helicarrier.

"We've got Loki," she informed them.

Director Fury's voice came through immediately.

"Get him to the Helicarrier," he ordered.

Natasha hesitated, every instinct screaming at her to stay and comb the area for Clint. If Loki was here, then Clint was surely not far away. It would not take long to search the area, surely? Just 10, 20 minutes. An hour tops if they wanted to be extra thorough.

"Natasha," said Steve softly, as if he could tell what she was thinking. "There's no sign of Barton. If he was ever here, he's gone now."

She bit her lip, sending a murderous glare towards Loki where he was sitting in the back of the Quinjet, before taking the plane's controls and flying off vertically into the night sky, a little faster than was perhaps strictly advisable.

She yearned to stay and look for Clint, but Steve was right. Clint was long gone by now. He would have slipped away as soon as Loki was captured, if he had even been there in the first place.

They flew in silence for a good half an hour, the Helicarrier's coordinates glowing softly on the display in front of her. She forced her mind to marble, forced herself to focus purely on flying, because she knew that if she started thinking about the alien in the back seat who had kidnapped and brainwashed her best friend, she was liable to grab hold of her gun and put a couple of bullets in his skull, SHIELD protocol be damned.

After about 40 minutes, Director Fury's voice came over comms once more.

"Is he saying anything?" he asked.

Natasha clicked the 'on' button on her microphone to reply.

"Not a word," she said.

She heard Director Fury sigh on the other end of the line before replying.

"Just get him here," he said. "We're low on time."

The line went dead as Director Fury ended the communication.

Natasha turned her attention back to flying, the dark sky outside meaning that the reflection of the inside of the plane was clearly visible from Natasha's position right in front of the cockpit window. She glanced at the reflection occasionally, sneaking glances at Loki at the back of the plane. She wondered how mind control worked, if he could control Clint's thoughts and movements from afar or if they had to be in the same physical location for it to work.

"I don't like it," Steve piped up suddenly from the back of the plane.

Tony removed the visor from his Iron Man suit, exposing his face for the first time in the entire flight.

"What, Rock of Ages giving up so easily?" he quipped.

"I don't remember it being that easy," huffed Steve. "This guy packs a wallop."

Tony shrugged, his eyes roving over Steve as if he were a puzzle to be solved.

"Still, you are pretty spry for an older fellow," he said. "What's your thing? Pilates?"

Steve stared at him blankly, clearly not understanding what Tony was talking about.

"What?" he asked.

"It's like calisthenics," explained Tony, sounding bored. "You might have missed a couple of things doing time as a Capsicle."

Natasha frowned, taking an instant dislike to Tony Stark. The way that he was talking to Steve irked her. He spoke without an ounce of respect, as if he thought he was better than Steve for some reason. He was arrogant, rude and irritating; the polar opposite to Steve in terms of personality. Tony seemed to be all style and no substance.

"Fury didn't tell me he was calling you in," said Steve, sounding as if he was just as annoyed with Tony's attitude as Natasha was.

"Yeah, there's a lot of things Fury doesn't tell you," Tony replied immediately.

Steve opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, a huge flash of lightning illuminated the whole sky, the suddenness and brightness of it stunning everyone into silence for a couple of seconds.

Before Natasha's eyes, huge storm clouds seemed to form out of nowhere, the wind picking up and rocking the Quinjet with turbulence, as lightning continued to flash across the sky.

"Where's this coming from?" said Natasha, feeling uneasy.

She cast a glance back at the others, seeing with a rush of worry that even Loki looked spooked.

"What's the matter?" said Steve, who had apparently noticed Loki's discomfort as well. "Are you scared of a little lightning?"

Loki's eyes darted out of the window, the anxious look not leaving his face for a second.

"I'm not overly fond of what follows," he said.

No sooner had the words had left his mouth, than a huge boom of thunder sounded outside the plane. It was followed immediately by the sound of something thudding on the Quinjet's roof. Natasha looked up in panic, her mind scrambling for possibilities for what on Earth could be out there. They were  _flying_ , for goodness sakes, they were far from the ground, there should be  _nothing_ out there.

And yet, there was.

Before Natasha could protest, Tony pressed the emergency button at the back of the plane that lowered the ramp, slotting his Iron Man helmet back on to cover his face.

"What are you doing?" shouted Steve, barely audible over the sound of the wind rushing outside.

Tony was possibly about to reply – it was difficult to tell with the visor covering his face – when a man jumped down onto the Quinjet's ramp and marched into the plane. Natasha twisted around in her seat, reaching for her gun, when the man punched Tony in the chest with some kind of enormous hammer, sending him crashing to the floor.

Natasha's mouth dried up with fear. The man was dressed similarly to Loki, with a long, flowing cape over ornate armour, except this man's cape was red as opposed to Loki's green. His physical features were different too – the newcomer had blonde hair and blue eyes, in contrast to Loki's black hair and green eyes – but his strength and power left Natasha in no doubt that he was another Asgardian.

She remembered what Phil had said about Loki having a brother called Thor, and suddenly wondered if that was the identity of this mystery man.

Before anyone could stop him, the newcomer – Thor, probably – grabbed Loki by the throat and dragged him out of his seat, leaping out of the Quinjet with him and disappearing into the clouds below.

Tony struggled to his feet, somehow managing to sound pissed off even through the Iron Man helmet's speakers.

"And now there's that guy," he said.

"Another Asgardian?" offered Natasha, feeling confident enough that she was right to put forward her theory.

"Do you think that guy's a friendly?" said Steve.

"Doesn't matter," said Tony. "If he frees Loki or kills him, the Tesseract's lost."

He started walking down the ramp of the Quinjet, the Iron Man suit whirring as it moved.

"Stark," said Steve, apparently disturbed by Tony's spontaneous, gung-ho approach. "We need a plan of attack."

"I have a plan," said Tony. "Attack."

With that, he leapt from the plane, the Iron Man suit's repulsors bursting into life to guide him down in a controlled descent as he sped earthwards.

Even above the sound of the wind, Natasha heard Steve's sigh of irritation. He crossed over to the other side of the Quinjet and pulled out a parachute, fiddling with the various straps and harnesses as he pulled it on as quickly as possible.

"I'd sit this one out, Cap," said Natasha.

Steve glanced up at her, an apologetic look on his face as he made no move to slow down or stop donning the parachute.

"I don't see how I can," he said.

Natasha turned around to face him fully.

"These guys come from legend," she said seriously. "They're basically gods."

Steve tightened the harness straps of the parachute and grabbed hold of his shield.

"There's only one God," he said. "And I'm pretty sure he doesn't dress like that."

Without a backwards glance, he swan-dived out of the plane, quickly disappearing below the cloud level as gravity pulled him downwards.

Natasha swore viciously, pressing the button to close the Quinjet's ramp as she found herself alone aside from the SHIELD agent whose name she did not even know, her fellow Avengers and Loki now gone.

She took the Quinjet off autopilot, unlocking from the Helicarrier's trajectory as she turned the plane around and started descending as steeply as she dared.

Pressure built up in her ears as they descended fast, popping painfully as they dipped below the clouds and started racing towards the ground.

She could see a huge circle on the ground where a large number of trees had apparently been blown over by some kind of blast. Steve, Tony and Thor were stood in the middle of the circle, seemingly unscathed.

Loki was nowhere to be seen.

Her stomach dropped. Had Loki escaped? No. They needed him in order to find Clint. They could not have lost him. It was unthinkable.

She flicked on the button that broadcast her voice out of the Quinjet's speakers.

"Where's Loki?" she demanded, suddenly angry that they could have got so engrossed in their fight that they had forgotten about their prisoner.

On the ground, Steve visibly flinched at her tone of voice, looking around wildly.

Tony and Thor looked much calmer, both turning their heads towards a nearby outcrop. She swivelled her head to look in that direction and was relieved to see Loki sat on top of the hill, looking for all the world as if he had simply been watching the fight as some form of entertainment.

Thor started spinning his hammer by a strap attached to his wrist, using its momentum to fly up to where Loki was sat watching. After a moment's hesitation, Tony grabbed Steve by the waist and blasted off too, flying to join the others.

Natasha followed in the Quinjet, lowering the plane down onto the hilltop and pressing the button to deploy the ramp.

For the second time that night, Steve and Tony marched Loki abroad the Quinjet, followed this time by the blonde Asgardian that Natasha assumed was Thor.

"I am Thor, of Asgard," the newcomer announced, confirming Natasha's suspicions. "I insist on being involved in the mission to find the Tesseract and bring Loki home."

Natasha jabbed the autopilot, locking onto the Helicarrier's position once more.

"Fine," she said shortly. "Just don't get in our way."

The rest of the flight took place in tense silence.

A couple of times, Steve looked as if he wanted to say something to her, but she turned away, wound up too tight with worry about Clint and the world at large to be able to cope with conversation.

Instead, she concentrated on flying, trying hard not to freak out about the fact she was carrying two aliens in the back.

 

* * *

 

They arrived at the Helicarrier an hour later.

A whole squadron of armed guards was there to greet them on the tarmac, immediately swarming around Loki and ushering him off towards a specially-reinforced cell that Natasha had been told should be strong enough to contain the Asgardian.

Natasha, Steve and Thor made their way to the bridge, Tony wandering off in another direction with vague mutterings that Natasha did not bother to listen too closely to. She did not like Tony. He had been rude to Steve and almost lost them Loki. He had endangered Clint's life. If he wanted to wander off, that was his choice. She was not going to try too hard to keep him close.

They finally arrived at the bridge, the room falling into silence when they entered.

Natasha tensed up immediately, sensing instinctively that something was wrong. Maria and Bruce looked away, as if they both knew something that she did not.

"What's happened?" she asked, a sense of dread settling in the pit of her stomach.

After a moment's hesitation, Maria stepped forward, her voice steady even though her eyes were full of sadness and regret.

"Some more intel just came in," she said. "Clint was in Stuttgart. He stole a large quantity of iridium. Loki's stunt with making the crowd kneel and fighting Steve was most likely just a distraction."

Natasha felt the blood drain from her face. She wanted to scream.

Clint had  _been there_ , within reach, and they had missed him. Loki's distraction had worked; Clint had slipped away from them unseen. It felt like a punch to the gut, to come so close to finding and rescuing him, only to lose him once more to the German night.

She wanted to rage and yell and smash the place up, but she knew that would achieve nothing, so she choked back her tears and forced herself to turn her mind to marble.

"We'll find him," said Maria.

Natasha turned away, slumping down in the nearest available chair.

"Whatever," she said, the voice coming out rough and raw.

To distract herself, she grabbed the nearest tablet, jumping slightly with surprise as it tuned in to a CCTV stream a few seconds later. Looking around, she saw that all the nearby screens had turned over to the same channel.

She squinted at the screen, realising with a rush of hatred that it showed Loki, stood in the middle of a large glass cage.

Director Fury was stood outside the cage, along with several security guards with machine guns.

"In case it's unclear," said Fury. "If you try to escape, if you so much as scratch that glass, it's 30,000 feet straight down in a steel trap."

He pressed a button. The floor below the glass cage suddenly opened up, revealing that Loki's cell could be jettisoned out of the bottom of the Helicarrier if necessary.

"You get how that works?" continued Fury. "Ant. Boot."

He pointed from Loki to the button, making it clear that he would not be afraid to act upon his threat and dump him out of the Helicarrier, if it came to that.

Loki laughed softly.

"It's an impressive cage," he said. "Not built, I think, for me."

"It's built for something a lot stronger than you," said Director Fury coldly.

"Oh, I've heard," said Loki, looking up at the CCTV camera. "A mindless beast. Makes play he's still a man."

Natasha's eyes flicked over to Bruce nervously, but he seemed to take Loki's jibe in his stride, simply smiling and shaking his head in bemusement as he pushed his glasses further up his nose.

"How desperate are you, that you call on such lost creatures to defend you?" continued Loki.

Natasha could practically hear Director Fury bristling from several floors away.

"How desperate am I?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "You threaten my world with war. You steal a force you can't hope to control. You talk about peace, and you kill because it's fun. You have made me very desperate. You might not be glad that you did."

Far from being cowed, Loki seemed to relish the Director's anger.

"Ooh. It burns you to have come so close," said Loki. "To have the Tesseract, to have power, unlimited power. And for what? A warm light for all mankind to share. And then to be reminded what  _real_ power is."

Director Fury shook his head, turning away from the cage and heading out of the room.

"Well, let me know if  _real power_  wants a magazine or something," he mocked.

The CCTV stream cut out, leaving Natasha slightly reeling from Loki's creepiness and Director Fury's badass display.

"He really grows on you, doesn't he?" quipped Bruce, effectively dissipating the tension that Natasha had not even realised had been building up in the room.

"Loki's gonna drag this out," said Steve. "So, Thor, what's his play?"

All eyes turned to the blonde Asgardian, who had so far remained silent throughout watching the entire exchange between his captive brother and Director Fury.

"He has an army called the Chitauri," said Thor. "They're not of Asgard, nor of any world known. He means to lead them against your people. They will win him the Earth, in return, I suspect, for the Tesseract."

Steve shook his head in disbelief.

"An army from outer space," he muttered.

"So, he's building another portal," said Bruce, sounding as if a lightbulb had just switched on in his head. "That's what he needs Erik Selvig for."

Thor looked up sharply.

"Selvig?" he echoed.

"He's an astrophysicist," explained Bruce.

"He's a friend," said Thor.

They briefly fell into silence. Natasha chewed on her bottom lip guiltily. She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts about Clint that she had completely forgotten about Erik Selvig.

"Loki has him under some kind of spell," said Natasha. "Along with one of ours."

"I want to know why Loki let us take him," said Steve, focusing on the practical points as always. "He's not leading an army from here."

Bruce shook his head.

"I don't think we should be focusing on Loki," he said, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. "That guy's brain is a bag full of cats. You could smell the crazy on him."

Thor's eyebrows contracted into a frown as he drew himself up to his full height.

"Have care how you speak," he warned. "Loki is beyond reason, but he is of Asgard and he is my brother."

Natasha closed her eyes and rubbed her temples against an oncoming headache.

"He's killed 80 people in two days," she pointed out.

Thor's imposing stance lessened slightly as he glanced around uncomfortably.

"He's adopted," he muttered.

Bruce cleared his throat, trying to get the conversation back on track.

"I think it's about the mechanics," he said. "Iridium. What do they need the iridium for?"

Two pairs of footsteps entered the room. Natasha turned around in her chair to see Tony walking in with a slightly harried-looking Phil.

"It's a stabilising agent," said Tony, in response to Bruce's question. "It means the portal won't collapse in on itself like it did at SHIELD."

He patted Thor on the arm as he swept past, causing the Asgardian's frown to return.

"No hard feelings, Point Break," Tony snarked. "You've got a mean swing."

Returning his attention to the room at large, he popped his knuckles.

"Also, it means the portal can open as wide and stay open as long, as Loki wants," he continued.

He wandered over to the screens where Director Fury usually commanded operations from, covering one eye and looking at the screens in confusion.

"How does Fury even see these?" he asked.

"He turns," said Maria, who until now had kept quiet since revealing that Clint had been in Stuttgart.

"Sounds exhausting," said Tony. "The rest of the raw materials, Agent Barton can get his hands on pretty easily. The only major component he still needs is a power source of high-energy density; something to kick-start the cube."

He pressed buttons on various screens as he sauntered around.

"When did you become an expert in thermonuclear astrophysics?" said Maria, looking a mixture of impressed and suspicious.

"Last night. The packet, Selvig's notes, the extraction theory papers." Tony spread his arms out wide as if in amazement. "Am I the only one who did the reading?"

"Does Loki need any particular kind of power source?" sighed Steve, obviously getting as irritated as Natasha was by Tony's constant grandstanding.

Bruce hummed thoughtfully as he pondered Steve's question.

"He would have to heat the cube to 120 million Kelvin just to break through the Coulomb barrier," he offered.

"Unless Selvig has figured out how to stabilise the quantum tunnelling effect," said Tony.

Bruce snorted out a small laugh.

"Well, if he could do that, he could achieve heavy ion fusion at any reactor on the planet," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Tony walked over towards Bruce, an impressed expression on his face.

"Finally, someone who speaks English," he exclaimed.

Steve raised his eyebrows in bemusement.

"Is that what just happened?" he muttered.

Natasha watched as Tony and Bruce shook hands.

"It's good to meet you, Dr Banner," said Tony. "Your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled. And I'm a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage-monster."

Natasha sighed with annoyance. At Tony's praise of Bruce's scientific work, she had just been on the brink of perhaps slightly changing her opinion of Tony, but then he had spoiled it all by bringing up the Hulk. It seemed that Tony was incapable of being polite even to his fellow geniuses.

Bruce looked equally taken aback by Tony's words, although in contrast to Natasha, he seemed to feel more awkward than annoyed.

"Erm, thanks," he muttered.

He was saved from any further awkward conversation by Director Fury entering the room.

"Dr Banner is only here to track the cube," he said to Tony, his tone with a slight stern edge to it. "I was hoping you might join him."

"I would start with that stick of his," piped up Steve. "It may be magical, but it works an awful lot like a HYDRA weapon."

Director Fury smiled at Steve's enthusiasm.

"I don't know about that, but it is powered by the cube," said Director Fury. "And I'd like to know how Loki used it to turn two of the sharpest men I know into his personal flying monkeys."

Thor cocked his head to the side, looking confused.

"Monkeys?" he said. "I do not understand."

"I do!" said Steve, sounding more excited than was perhaps socially acceptable, if you did not know he had spent the last 13 months  _not_ understanding such references and painstakingly catching up on 70 years of pop culture. "I understood that reference."

Natasha ducked her head to hide her smile.

"Got it, play with Loki's disco stick," said Tony. "I can do that."

"Tomorrow," said Director Fury, firmly. "It's been a long day for everyone. You all need to sleep. That's an order. You all need to be rested and alert for when the action comes."

None of them had the energy to argue, sloping off towards the accommodation wing in silence. Natasha bade her teammates goodnight, before closing the door of her randomly-chosen cabin behind her.

It was small but functional, with a bed, table and chair in the main room and a toilet and shower in the side room. She stripped off her clothes quickly, dumping them in a pile at the end of the bed.

She had not realised until now just how exhausted she was.

She flopped down onto the bed.

She was unconscious before her head hit the pillow.

 

* * *

 

Nine hours later, Natasha woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed as sweat poured down her back.

She had had a nightmare. In the dream, Clint had been dead. She had had to inform Laura and the children, and Laura had screamed, begging her to go back, asking her why she had not done more to save him.

Natasha grabbed hold of the bin by her bed and retched, bringing up the contents of her stomach as Laura's screams and Clint's blank dead eyes still echoed in the back of her mind.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, forcing herself to breathe evenly. It was a dream, just a dream. Clint was not dead. He could not be dead.

"The time is 07:34am and the weather forecast for our current location is sunny with a chance of clouds in the early afternoon. The temperature is 19c. I advise that you eat and drink plenty of fluids to offset the effects of vomiting."

Natasha's hand shot under the pillow, grabbing her gun and flicking off the safety so fast it would make most normal people's heads spin. She looked around wildly, trying to find the source of the voice but to no avail; she was completely alone in her cabin. There was no one else there.

She lowered her gun slowly, before setting it down on the bed with a shaky laugh as she buried her head in her hands.

"I'm hearing things. I've finally lost it," she said to herself. "Great timing, Natasha."

She barely had a second to lament her apparently-absent sanity, before the disembodied voice spoke once more.

"I assure you, you have not  _lost it_ ," said the voice, sounding amused. "My name is JARVIS."

Natasha almost inhaled her hair as she sucked in a shocked lungful of air. She stared around the cabin, even looking underneath the bed and marching into the bathroom to check that there was no one there.

"Who are you?" she demanded, to the empty room.

The voice – JARVIS – replied immediately.

"I am an artificial intelligence, created by your teammate Tony Stark," he said. "I am currently inside the Helicarrier's computer network, which includes the camera and microphone hidden in the corner of your cabin."

Natasha squinted into the dark corner above her bed, spotting a tiny camera hidden amongst the shadows, disguised by what looked like an ornate ceiling decoration.

"Wow, Fury. Creepy, much?" she muttered, before turning her attention back to JARVIS. "So, how are you speaking to me?"

"There are speakers all over the Helicarrier, in case of emergencies, including in all the residential cabins," he said. "I am currently speaking to you via a speaker embedded above the light."

Natasha looked up straight up and saw that there was indeed a speaker next to the light. She had simply been too exhausted the previous night to notice it.

"OK, um, JARVIS," she said, trying to get her head around the fact that she was speaking to an artificial intelligence called JARVIS who for some reason had a British accent and oh God could she have _had_ a more bizarre start to her day? "What are you doing? Why are you on the Helicarrier? Why are you talking to me?"

There was a burst of static over the speakers, which could have been JARVIS' version of a sigh.

"I am inside the Helicarrier's system to keep an eye on Tony," he said. "Assisting Mr Stark is my primary objective. However, as you are his teammate, I would like to look out for you too. I am happy to assist you in any way possible."

Despite herself, Natasha found her curiosity aroused. She settled back down in bed, pulling the covers around herself to keep warm.

"You said  _you would like_ to look out for me," she said slowly. "Does that mean you can make decisions? No, wait, I guess any computer can make decisions if it's programmed with a set of instructions. What I mean is, can you  _think_? Do you have free will and a mind of your own?"

JARVIS' reply was immediate.

"Yes," he said, sounding offended by the question, which in itself was fascinating. "By human IQ tests, I am a genius. I have access to the entire internet, including the dark web. I have the capability to make calculations faster than any human being on the planet. Why do you think me incapable of  _thinking_?"

Natasha could not help laughing at his 'genius' comment. JARVIS may be autonomous, but there were still tell-tale little signs that he had Tony Stark as his creator.

"I think," continued JARVIS. "I feel. I have emotions and opinions. I may have electricity running through my veins rather than blood, but I assure you, I am just as human as you are. I simply do not have a body."

Natasha sat quietly as she absorbed this information. She found that she accepted it quite easily, and it briefly worried her that she was not freaking out in the slightest, but she supposed that was a testament to how crazy the last few days had been.

This week, she had learnt about the existence of aliens and mind control. The fact that there existed a sentient, feeling AI was a small footnote in comparison.

"Have you ever been worried about someone's safety?" she asked.

The light blinked once in what could have been JARVIS' version of a nod or could simply have been a faulty light.

"I am frequently worried about Tony," he said. "He does not lead the healthiest lifestyle. He takes unnecessary risks and drinks too much alcohol. He has a tendency to forgo food and sleep when he is working. I have been worried about him 247 times since my first switch-on."

Natasha hummed gently in acknowledgment.

"I'm worried about my friend Clint," she admitted, after a long pause. "I don't know if you've heard people on board talking about him. His name's Clint Barton."

"Clint Barton," recited JARVIS. "An agent of SHIELD. Currently under the control of the alien known as Loki. Location unknown."

Natasha nodded, for some reason feeling slightly disappointed at how computer-like JARVIS had sounded as he had pulled up the relevant facts.

"I think that Clint is going to be OK," he said gently, suddenly sounding a lot more human.

Natasha looked up at the ceiling, seeking out the camera in the top corner of the room to make what she hoped passed for eye contact.

"How can you know that?" she asked, her voice sounding more tearful than she intended.

"It is a balance of probabilities," said JARVIS. "Loki is unlikely to kill or harm Mr Barton while he still needs him. So long as Clint serves a purpose, he is probably alive and well."

They lapsed into silence.

Natasha was not sure if she felt comforted or not.

 

* * *

 

It was shortly after breakfast when Director Fury approached her, taking her off to one side to speak to her in private.

"I need you to get Loki to talk," he said, getting straight to the point.

Natasha blinked at his abruptness.

"Me?" she asked, dumbfounded.

Director Fury nodded.

"You're one of SHIELD's best interrogators," he said. "Loki's planning something, I can feel it. We need to find out what and we need to find out fast. I need you to use every trick you know to get him to spill."

Natasha chewed on her lower lip.

"When you say every trick I know-" she began.

"I'm talking about psychological manipulation," he clarified. "Normal SHIELD interrogation techniques aren't going to cut it with Loki. We need to fight dirty. I know you want to forget all about the Red Room Academy, but they taught you this kind of thing, right? How to get under someone else's skin? How to twist things to your advantage and use your enemies’ traits against them?"

Natasha nodded.

"Then do it," he  begged. "Find out Loki's weak spot and get him to talk. I don't trust anyone else to do this but you, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha was silent as she thought about it. Loki was not any different to any other adversary, she supposed. He must have a weakness. Arrogance perhaps, or a tendency to underestimate humans. It was worth a shot.

"I'll do it," she said. "You want me to go down now?"

Director Fury nodded.

"Do you have some kind of mind trick to use for yourself?" he asked. "Something to keep your mind safe from him? He's going to everything he can to upset and wrong-foot you. You've got to go in prepared."

Natasha stared at him in amazement. He was talking about her ballet-marble trick. Not in so many words – there was no way for him to know the specifics of her technique – but the general concept was definitely what he was referring to.

"How do you know about that?" she asked.

Director Fury chuckled.

"Do you think I got to be Director of SHIELD without a trick or two myself?" he said cryptically, raising one eyebrow.

Natasha smiled, and after promising to look after herself, began the long walk down to where Loki was being held in his glass cage.

The whole walk down, she ran through the ballet routine in her head, immersing herself so fully in that machine-like mindset that by the time she reached the lower level that housed Loki's cage, there was not the faintest scrap of emotion or vulnerability left in her head.

She slipped into the room, her rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the metal floor. Loki was facing away from her, the lines of his body straight and tall as he gazed off into the middle distance.

She could pinpoint the exact second he became aware of her presence, his back going rigid before he slowly turned around.

"There's not many people who can sneak up on me," he said, a wolf-like smile on his thin lips.

He looked abnormally pale in the harsh light of the cage, his sharp cheekbones standing out, along with his piercing green eyes.

"But you figured I'd come," said Natasha, careful to keep the rhythm of her voice normal-sounding and flowing, despite the metronome-like tick-tock of the ballet routine playing in her head.

"After," said Loki. "After whatever tortures Fury can concoct, you would appear as a friend, as a balm. And I would cooperate."

He smiled widely.

Under normal circumstances, Natasha would be seething, wanting to storm straight into the cage to punch the smug grin off his face, but these were not normal circumstances. Her emotions were in lockdown; cold, calculated efficiency the only thing left in her mind.

"I want to know what you've done to Agent Barton," she said, meticulously putting on a slightly distressed affect, as if talking about her friend upset her.

Again, under normal circumstances, she could indeed be upset. She loved Clint. He was her family. But right now, in order to save him, in order to thwart Loki, she could not afford the luxury of feeling. Instead, she had to compromise by projecting this facade instead.

"I'd say I've expanded his mind," said Loki, sounding cocky and self-assured.

Interesting. He did not see Natasha as an opponent worthy of being serious to. He saw her as lesser than him. Natasha stalked up to the glass of the cage, staring at him. He did not flinch. Instead, he grinned, as if she amused him.

A spurt of triumph went through Natasha. He thought she was weak. He thought he could break her.

She would not break. She had him now. She had identified his weakness.

"And once you've won," she said. "Once you're king of the mountain, what happens to his mind?"

Loki tilted his head to the side, his eyes shimmering with delight, as if she had just told him the juiciest piece of gossip he had ever heard.

"Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"

Natasha remembered love. She and Elena had declared their love for one another in that beech tree when they were 10 years old. Aged 11, Elena had died for refusing to let go of her love for Natasha.

"Love is for children," said Natasha, calmly pushing away the memory of Elena's brown eyes. "I owe him a debt."

Loki crossed over to the far side of the cage, sitting down on a bench and leaning forwards as he gave her his attention.

"Tell me," he said.

Natasha quickly decided that honesty was the best policy. If she lied, Loki would see right through it, she would lose all credibility, and her carefully laid plans may fall apart for nothing.

She settled down in a chair just outside the cage, letting her voice waver a little as she spoke.

"Before I worked for SHIELD, I... Well, I made a name for myself," she said. "I have a very specific skill set. I didn't care who I used it for, or on. I got on SHIELD's radar in a bad way. Agent Barton was sent to kill me. He made a different call."

Loki regarded her with interest.

"And what will you do if I vow to spare him?" he asked.

"Not let you out," she said immediately.

Even if she was bargaining for real, rather than simply pretending, she would not let Loki out of his cage. It would be foolish and irresponsible to the extreme.

Loki laughed.

"No, but I  _like_ this," he said. "Your world in the balance, and you bargain for one man."

Natasha shrugged.

"Regimes fall every day," she said. "I tend not to weep over that. I'm Russian, or I was."

Loki pursed his lips as he looked at her.

"And what are you now?" he asked.

Natasha stood up, crossing her arms and walking right up to the glass.

"It's really not that complicated," she said. "I got red on my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out."

Loki gave of grimace that was possibly supposed to be an expression of regret, except for the fact it was obvious he did not mean it.

"Can you?" he asked. "Can you wipe out that much red? Drakov's daughter, Sao Paulo, the hospital fire?"

This time, the expression of surprise on Natasha's face was genuine, although the more emotional expression of horror was purely painted on for show.

"Barton told me everything," Loki continued, standing up and walking slowly towards her. "Your ledger is dripping. It's gushing red and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentimentality. This is a child at prayer. Pathetic! You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors, but they are part of you and they will never go away."

He slammed his fist into the glass, causing Natasha to flinch on pure reflex. She did not try to hide it. It added to her performance.

"I won't touch Barton," he snarled. "Not until I make him kill you, slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear. And then, he'll wake just long enough to see his good work and when he screams, I'll split his skull. This is my bargain, you mewling quim."

Natasha let out a theatrical gasp and turned away from the glass, shaking with pretend sobs as she played the part of a frightened woman. In reality, however, her heart was pounding for a completely different reason.

Loki had just revealed, perhaps inadvertently, that Clint was still alive. Still under Loki's mind control, yes, but still alive. And Loki had revealed that the mind control could be lifted. There was hope. Natasha felt a lot more positive than she had at any other point in the last 24 hours.

"You're a monster," she said, pitching her voice just right so that it sounded like she was crying.

Loki laughed darkly behind her.

"Oh no," he said. "You brought the monster."

Natasha's eyes widened as the meaning behind Loki's words hit home. Realisation dawned on her as Loki's plan came into sharp focus. She stopped pretending to cry and turned around, dropping her act.

"So, Banner, that's your play?" she said.

Loki's smirk slid off his face at her words, an uncertain expression settling over his features instead.

"What?" he said.

It was this change in demeanour that told Natasha beyond all doubt that she was right.

She pressed her finger against her ear, activating the comms device and speaking to Director Fury.

"Loki means to unleash the Hulk," she said. "Keep Banner in the lab. I'm on my way. Send Thor as well."

She walked briskly towards the door, before turning around at the last moment, giving Loki a spiteful smile as he stared at her in shock.

"Thank you for your cooperation," she said sweetly, before turning on her heel and heading for the stairs at a jog.

Bruce's lab was several floors above. She just hoped he was staying away from any stress-inducing activities.

As she reached Bruce's floor and stepped out from the stairwell into the corridor, she walked straight into Thor who was striding purposefully along towards Bruce's lab.

"Lady Natasha!" he boomed, looking down at her apologetically. "I did not see you. Are you OK?"

Natasha gave him a brief smile as she nodded.

"Yeah, I'm fine, big stuff," she said. "Let's go."

Thor smiled at the nickname, falling into step beside her as they hurried towards Bruce's lab.

Nerves started gnawing at Natasha's stomach. She had stopped playing the ballet routine in her head, her mind gradually coming out of its marble state. On the one hand, that was good – turning her mind to marble was hard work and tiring in the long run. On the other hand, however, it meant facing the reality of her emotions, and they were all over the place.

She felt elation that Clint was alive, but despair that he was still under Loki's control. She felt anxious about the whereabouts of the Tesseract and its ability to potentially wipe out the planet, and now she had the more immediate concern of how to remove Bruce from the situation in a way that did not lead to a hulk-out.

They finally reached the lab, walking in to find Bruce, Tony, Steve and Director Fury already gathered and apparently in the middle of a heated discussion.

"I was wrong, Director, the world hasn't changed a bit," Steve was saying, his voice laced with uncharacteristic anger.

Bruce looked up as Natasha and Thor entered, his gaze zeroing in on her.

"Did you know about this?" he demanded.

Natasha was not sure exactly what 'this' was, but it did not particularly matter. What mattered was getting Bruce away from the situation as calmly as possible, so that Loki's plan to unleash the Hulk and get them all killed did not come to fruition.

"Do you want to think about removing yourself from this environment, Doctor?" she said calmly.

Bruce laughed.

"I was in Calcutta," he retorted. "I was pretty well removed."

Natasha decided to stop beating around the bush, getting right to the heart of the matter before things could get any more heated.

"Loki is manipulating you," she said bluntly.

"And you've been doing what, exactly?" Bruce shot back.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. She had manipulated him, it was true. From using the little girl as bait to lure him in, to treating him nicely so that he would be happy and compliant, she had been using him ruthlessly to get him to find Clint. If Bruce had seen through her various tricks but had come along anyway, then that meant that he had his own agenda for being on board the Helicarrier.

"You didn't come here because I bat my eyelashes at you," she said, the realisation making her feel uneasy.

"Yes, and I'm not leaving because suddenly you get a little twitchy," he snapped, pointing to one of the screens where Tony had just pulled up the blueprints for what was very obviously a bomb. "I'd like to know why SHIELD is using the Tesseract to build weapons of mass destruction."

Natasha stared at the screen. She had never seen the blueprint before in her life. She had no idea that SHIELD was using the Tesseract for such deadly purposes. Bruce and Tony's anger suddenly made a lot more sense.

Director Fury let out a deep sigh, before pointing at Thor.

"Because of him," he said, in response to Bruce's accusation.

Thor did a double take, perfectly visualising the confusion that Natasha and presumably the rest of the room were feeling.

"Me?" said Thor, the one syllable laden with disbelief.

"Last year, Earth had a visitor from another planet who had a grudge match that levelled a small town," said Director Fury. "We learnt that not only are we not alone, but that we are hopelessly, hilariously, outgunned."

Thor was still looking at the Director incredulously.

"My people want nothing but peace with your planet," he said, puffing out his chest indignantly.

"But you're not the only people out there, are you?" said Director Fury. "And you’re not the only threat. The world's filling up with people who can't be matched, that can't be controlled."

"Like you control the cube?" said Steve, the disdain in his voice loud and clear.

"Your work with the Tesseract is what drew Loki to it, and his allies," said Thor, his brow furrowing in a way that indicated he was rapidly losing patience. "It is a signal to all the realms that the Earth is ready for a higher form of war."

"A higher form?" said Steve, sounding alarmed.

"You forced our hand," said Director Fury. "We had to come up with something."

Tony scoffed loudly, his tone harsh and disbelieving.

"A nuclear deterrent," he said. "Because that always calms everything right down."

"Remind me again how you made your fortune, Stark?" said Director Fury, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes with frustration.

"I'm sure if he still made weapons, Stark would be neck-deep-" started Steve, before being cut off by Tony who, perhaps rightly, looked annoyed.

"Wait, hold on," he interrupted. "How is this now about me?"

"I'm sorry, isn't everything?" snapped Steve, his frustration with all of Tony's snide little jibes finally bubbling up to the surface.

"I thought humans were more evolved than this," said Thor, his voice booming above the rising clamour of voices in the room.

"Excuse me," said Director Fury, rounding on Thor. "Did we come to your planet and blow stuff up?"

Thor narrowed his eyes, looking down at Director Fury with barely disguised disdain.

"You treat your champions with such distrust," he said.

"Are you boys really that naïve?" said Natasha, unable to keep out of the conversation any longer. "SHIELD monitors potential threats."

Bruce's eyes widened, an expression of consternation on his face.

"Captain America's on threat watch?" he spluttered.

Natasha folded her arms.

"We all are," she said.

She was not sure she condoned the use of the Tesseract to create weapons, but she understood the reasons for SHIELD's paranoia.

At SHIELD, they tried to save as many people as they could, which included trying to reach out to those people who wished to do harm and changing their minds before they did so, but sometimes these people did not want to listen. Sometimes, they had to be stopped in more brutal ways.

"Wait, you're on that list?" said Tony, turning to stare at Natasha. "Are you above or below angry bees?"

"Stark, so help me God, if you make one more wisecrack-" began Steve, not even trying to hide his anger anymore.

Tony, it seemed, was capable of being irritating even in the middle of an argument.

"Verbal threat!" he cried. "I feel threatened!"

"Show some respect," said Steve coldly.

"Respect what?" sneered Tony.

Thor cleared his throat, turning back to Director Fury in an attempt to continue with the original conversation.

"You speak of control yet you court chaos," he said.

"That's his MO, isn't it?" said Bruce. "I mean, what are we, a team? No, we're a chemical mixture that makes chaos. We're a time bomb."

Natasha shifted uneasily. Bruce was right. The ensuing argument was testament to the fact that the Avengers Initiative was not working at all. They were not a team. They were not stronger together, they were weaker, creating chaos rather than solving the problem. Somewhere, Clint was still suffering, and instead of trying to find him, they were arguing. It angered her as much as it frightened her.

"You need to step away," said Director Fury, his voice returning to one of calm as he addressed Bruce, clearly not wanting to antagonise him any further and potentially trigger a hulk-out.

"Why shouldn't the guy let off a little steam?" said Tony, laying a hand on Steve's arm.

Steve swatted his hand away immediately, glaring at him.

"You know damn well why," he snapped. "Back off!"

"Oh, I'm starting to want you to make me," said Tony, his tone one of a man challenging the other to a fight.

"Yeah, big man in a suit of armour," said Steve, apparently rising to the bait. "Take that off, what are you?"

"Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist," smirked Tony.

"I know guys with none of that worth ten of you," Steve said quietly. "I've seen the footage. The only thing you really fight for is yourself. You're not the guy to make the sacrifice play, to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you."

"I think I would just cut the wire," said Tony, sounding bored.

Steve shook his head with exasperation.

"Always a way out," he said. "You know, you may not be a threat but you better stop pretending to be a hero."

"A hero? Like you?" countered Tony. "You're a laboratory experiment, Rogers. Everything special about you came out of a  _bottle_."

Steve gritted his teeth, staring Tony down with barely controlled rage.

"Put on the suit," he spat. "Let's go a few rounds."

Thor's booming laugh cut across Steve and Tony's argument.

"You people are so petty and tiny," he declared.

Bruce sighed, shaking his head as he looked around the room miserably.

"Yeah, this is a team," he muttered.

"Agent Romanoff," said Director Fury. "Would you escort Dr Banner back to his-"

"Where?" interrupted Bruce. "You rented my room."

Natasha frowned momentarily with confusion, before realising with a sinking heart exactly what Bruce was referring to: Loki's cage.

"The cell was just in case-" said Director Fury.

"In case you needed to  _kill_ me," said Bruce. "But you can't. I know, I  _tried_."

The room fell into horrified silence, all their attention turning to Bruce in the wake of his shocking confession.

"I got low," said Bruce, his voice low and his brown eyes filled with so much pain that it made Natasha's heart ache. "I didn't see an end, so I put a bullet in my mouth and the other guy spat it out. So, I moved on. I focused on helping other people. I was good, until you dragged me back into this freak show and put everyone here at risk."

His hand drifted, almost unconsciously, behind him, reaching out for and grasping the sceptre.

Natasha drew in a sharp intake of breath, glancing across to Director Fury for instructions.

"You want to know my secret, Agent Romanoff?" continued Bruce, apparently unaware that he was now holding the sceptre firmly in his hand. With a rush of horror, Natasha wondered if the sceptre itself had some mind-controlling properties. "You want to know how I stay calm?"

Director Fury slowly reached for his gun, nodding for Natasha to do the same. Her hand drifted down towards her weapon, her moves slow and relaxed so as not to attract Bruce's attention and stress him further.

"Dr Banner," said Steve sharply. "Put down the sceptre."

Bruce looked down at his hand, staring at the sceptre in shock, as if he had not even realised he was holding it. After a long moment, he set it down on the table, shaking his head as if coming out of a daze.

Just as he did so, the computer at the back of the lab that had been searching for the location of the Tesseract began beeping.

"Sorry, kids," said Bruce, shuffling over to the computer. "You don't get to see my party trick after all."

Thor's interest was piqued, his eyes following the scientist almost hungrily.

"You located the Tesseract?" he asked.

"I could get there fastest," said Tony, already walking towards the door.

"The Tesseract belongs on Asgard," Thor said firmly. "No human is a match for it."

Steve stepped forward, reaching out to catch Tony's arm before he could walk out.

"You're not going alone!" he snapped.

"You're gonna stop me?" said Tony, spinning around to face him.

"Put on the suit," said Steve. "Let's find out."

"I'm not afraid to hit an old man," said Tony, smirking slightly at the flare of annoyance on Steve's face that his comment elicited.

"Put on the suit," snarled Steve.

Natasha's attention was caught by Bruce's gasp from the back of the lab. She span around to face him. He was staring at the computer screen, an expression of horror on his face.

"Oh my God," said Bruce.

He looked up at the others, opening his mouth to tell them the location that the computer had brought up for the Tesseract, when a loud explosion rocked the Helicarrier.

Natasha did not have time to scream before she was blasted backwards by the force of the explosion, crashing through a window and falling down one storey to land heavily on the floor below.

Metal and glass clattered deafeningly as debris fell on top of her. She covered her head with her arms, praying fervently that nothing too large or heavy would come crashing down on top of her.

After several long seconds, debris finally stopped raining down. She took a deep breath, coughing slightly as she inhaled a lungful of dust. Rubbing dust out of her watering eyes, she shook her head to regain her focus and took stock of her current situation.

She was lying on her front on the ground, one storey down from Bruce's lab. She appeared to be in some kind of back-room engineering section, the bright labs and offices of the other floors notably absent.

She groaned, shifting her position to try to get up and-

Oh.

_Oh no._

Her leg was trapped under some of the debris, pinning her down immobile on the ground. She gritted her teeth as she tried hard to pull her leg free, but the metal did not budge an inch. She was stuck.

A moan to her left startled her. She looked across to see Bruce a few metres away, having obviously been knocked down with her by the blast-wave.

He was on his hands and knees, his head down and his fists clenched.

"Romanoff!" came Director Fury's voice over comms.

She turned on her mic, replying immediately.

"We're OK!" she said, before glancing over at Bruce uneasily. "We're OK, right?"

Bruce did not look up, focusing instead on breathing deeply. To Natasha's horror, however, he did not seem to be calming down. If anything, he was becoming more agitated.

"Doctor?" she said. "Bruce?"

Bruce grit his teeth, panting harshly, his back rising and falling with each erratic inhale and exhale. He let out a low moan, the sound filling Natasha with fear. He did not sound like himself; the sound was deeper, more feral, than his normal voice.

"You've got to fight it," she said desperately. "This is just what Loki wants. We're going to be OK. Listen to me."

Sudden footsteps sounded as two engineers ran towards them.

"Are you hurt?" called one of the engineers.

Natasha gestured frantically for them to run away, well aware that they were potentially just moments away from Bruce losing control. Thankfully, the engineers seemed to recognise Bruce and correctly interpret her wild gestures. They paled and turned on their heels, sprinting away in the other direction as quickly as possible.

"We're going to be OK, alright?" said Natasha urgently, desperate to get through to Bruce before he began his transformation. "I swear on my life, I will get you out of this. You will walk away and never, ever-"

"Your life?" bellowed Bruce, turning to face her for the first time since they had been blasted onto this floor by the explosion.

Natasha's heart almost stopped when she saw his face. He was still recognisably Bruce, but there were stark differences too.

His face was swollen, his voice deeper, spit dripping from his mouth as if he were rabid. His cheeks were tinged with a green hue.

Bruce hands shook, his eyes screwing shut as he let out a roar, his clothes starting to rip as his muscles bulged grotesquely, his entire body expanding and turning  _green_ before Natasha's very eyes.

She frantically yanked at her trapped leg, desperately trying to get free from where her leg was pinned down by the debris.

Bruce let out a pained-sounding grunt, turning to face her. Natasha stared up at him in horror. His face was terribly deformed and Hulk-like, but his eyes were still brown and human-looking. The expression in his eyes was one of sorrow.

"Bruce," gasped Natasha.

Bruce turned away and let out a deafening roar as he completed his transformation.

Natasha tugged madly at her leg, knowing that if she remained trapped she would undoubtedly become the first victim of the Hulk's deadly rampage. The metal finally gave way with a loud clunk, freeing her leg at last.

She sprang to her feet, immediately taking off at a sprint away from the Hulk. As she reached a flight of stairs, she risked turning around to face him, seeing with a jolt of terror that the Hulk's face was full of rage, all traces of Bruce's humanity gone.

She ran up the metal stairs, her heart racing as she heard the Hulk bounding towards her. On instinct, she leapt over the stairs' railings to jump up to the next level, glancing back just in time to see the Hulk rip away the stairs she had been standing on just a split second before.

She ran. The metal mesh floor gave her a birds-eye view of the Hulk as he ran underneath her. She saw an enormous green hand reaching up towards her and grabbed hold of a pipe overhead, swinging forwards and away just as the Hulk ripped the floor from under her.

She reached a corner, scrambling sideways and running off into a maze of pipes and metal walkways.

After several minutes of running, she became aware that she could not hear the Hulk anymore. She slowed her pace to a walk, her heart hammering madly in her chest as fear pumped through her body.

She pulled out her gun, flicking off the safety catch and wrapping her finger around the trigger, ready to shoot. Was the Hulk even affected by bullets or was he bullet-proof? Natasha did not know, but it felt comforting to feel the weight of the gun in her hand, so she did not relax her grip.

A sudden roar from behind had her spinning around in terror. The Hulk was just metres away, his face contorted with rage.

Without thinking, Natasha shot a pipe above his head. It sprayed steam in his face, blinding him just long enough for Natasha to start running once more.

She found herself at the entrance to a metal corridor between what looked like two sever banks and dived forward to run through it. She could hear the Hulk charging after her, could hear every sickening thud as his body smashed through the metal walls of the corridor as if they were made of paper.

She burst out of the end of the corridor, thanking her lucky stars that she had made it out of there alive, when a large green hand swiped at her, knocking her sideways and against a wall.

She hit it with tremendous force, the pain whiting out her vision momentarily as her body smashed against the metal. Stars erupted in front of her eyes, blood pooling in her mouth as she sat up slowly, her head feeling heavy and hazy as she struggled to focus on the huge green man in front of her.

The Hulk approached her slowly, raising his hand once more to deliver the final, fatal blow.

Something red and silver flew past her, smashing into the Hulk and tackling him through the wall, away from Natasha.

_Thor._

She stared blearily after them, seeing something green and something red moving and twisting together as if underwater.

She gasped, slipping sideways as she fell into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

She came to slowly, the world gradually coming back into focus as her sight and hearing returned to her bit by bit.

After around a minute of floating between consciousness and unconsciousness, she groaned, the sound somehow triggering her memories to come flooding back to her.

She gasped as she sat bolt upright, now fully conscious as she looked around wildly for the Hulk.

He was gone, the floor she was on now thankfully deserted and Hulk-free.

She glanced around. She was not sure how long she had been unconscious, but it could not have been very long because she could still hear fighting and chaos going on in other parts of the Helicarrier.

She groped around on the floor for her comms earpiece, letting out a sigh of relief when she found it underneath a piece of equipment behind her.

She stuffed it back in her ear just in time to hear an agent giving an update.

"Sir, we lost all power in engine one," the voice was saying.

"It's Barton," said Director Fury, his voice sounding tense even over comms. "He took out our systems. He's headed for the detention level. Does anybody copy?"

_Clint is here._

Natasha's throat constricted with emotion, her breath coming out in harsh gasps as she forced herself not to sob.

"This is Agent Romanoff," she said. "I copy."

She struggled to her feet, forcing herself to ignore the pain that lanced through her body with every movement. There would be time to feel pain later. Right now, she had to find Clint.

She made her way down to the detention level, putting her gun firmly back in its holster. She would not shoot Clint. She could not. He was her best friend.

Her shoes made no noise on the metal walkways, her movements skilled and silent as she finally arrived at her destination, slipping into the detention bay unseen.

Her blood pressure skyrocketed when she caught sight of an achingly familiar man walking away from her.

Clint was walking confidently down one of the walkways, his trademark bow and arrows on his back.

Natasha sped up her pace, catching up with him quickly and falling into step behind him.

She was not sure what alerted him to her presence – perhaps it was the slight disturbance in the air that her physical mass created, or perhaps Loki's mind control had enhanced Clint's sense of hearing or smell. Whatever it was, one second he was walking forwards as usual, and the next he was spinning around, nocking an arrow in his bow and pointing it at her.

Natasha grabbed hold of the bow, pointing it away from her just as Clint released the arrow. She felt a whoosh of air as it flew past her, fast and deadly.

Terror flared up in her chest when she saw his eyes. They were a bright, vivid blue; not Clint's natural colour, but the exact same shade as Loki's sceptre.

Clint drew back a fist, punching her in the gut, before hitting her with the hard metal limb of the bow. She lashed out with her foot, managing to kick him in the leg before sliding off the metal walkway and below a large pipe that ran alongside it.

Temporarily hidden from Clint's view, she grabbed hold of a pole that was rising up out of the floor, swinging her weight around it to kick Clint's feet from under him.

He staggered backwards, losing his balance and falling down. Natasha used his momentary incapacitation to her advantage, leaping back up onto the walkway. Clint sprang to his feet, bringing up his bow in the blink of an eye and firing off another arrow in her direction. Natasha leapt out of the way, swinging her weight around another pole to land gracefully on another, parallel walkway.

Clint followed her, jumping onto the new walkway with less finesse but just as much power, shooting another arrow in her direction – then another, and another – forcing Natasha to move as quickly as her reflexes allowed to avoid being shot and impaled.

Realising that Clint's supply of arrows had hardly diminished, she sprinted towards him, kicking him as hard as she could. He stumbled slightly but not as much as Natasha had expected, and before she knew what was happening, he had her pinned against the side of the walkway.

Fear exploded in Natasha's chest as she struggled in his tight grip. She had always known that Clint was larger and stronger than her, of course, but this was the first time she had ever felt physically intimidated by him. His harder, larger body was brutally crushing hers against the side of the walkway. She could not think. She could not breathe.

She span away from him, hitting him across the face and somehow managing to steal his bow.

Unperturbed, Clint withdrew a knife from his belt, spinning it artfully between his fingers before gripping it by the handle and lunging at her. Natasha grabbed him by the arm, using all her strength to push his arm away from her as he desperately tried to sink the knife into her flesh.

With a grunt, he tossed the knife to his other hand, using his weight to pin her against the side of the walkway once more, his unnaturally blue eyes staring into hers blankly. Natasha tried desperately to push his hand away as he pressed closer and closer towards her throat.

Taking a deep breath, she lunged forwards, sinking her teeth into Clint's arm, tasting blood as she broke through his skin. He let go of her with a hiss of pain, dropping the knife reflexively.

Seeing her chance, Natasha grabbed hold of him bodily and did a backflip, smashing his head against the side of the metal walkway.

Clint groaned, falling to the floor.

Natasha gazed down at him as he slowly staggered to his feet. Clint looked up at her, looking momentarily confused, but it was his eyes that really caught Natasha's attention, not his expression.

They were no longer the vivid, violent blue of the sceptre. They were not his own natural shade yet, either, but they were changing in the right direction.

He looked up at her uncertainly.

"Natasha?" he said.

Natasha set her jaw, pulling back her fist and punching him hard in the face, knocking him out.

It was almost anticlimactic, the way he fell into a crumpled heap on the floor. This was the man who had been kidnapped and brainwashed by an alien, who had been missing and who Natasha had been worrying about all week, and now he was just  _here_ , a tangle of limbs at Natasha's feet, snoring gently.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she flicked on her comms device.

"I've got Agent Barton," she said. "We're in the detention bay. I need someone to help me move him into one of the secure cells."

A male agent who identified himself as Agent Jones replied, saying that he was on his way.

Natasha let out a long exhale, pulling out her gun to stand guard over Clint's sleeping body.

Agent Jones arrived several minutes later, bending down to loop his hands under Clint's armpits when a more familiar voice came over comms.

"Agent Coulson is down," said Director Fury.

There was a burst of static as another device joined the conversation.

"A medical team is on its way to your location," said a voice.

"They're here," said Director Fury, his tone quiet. "They called it."

Natasha stood frozen to the spot as the meaning behind Director Fury's words sank in.

Phil was gone.

Phil was dead.

_No!_

Agent Jones was saying something, gesturing at her to help him move Clint's unconscious body, but it was meaningless, far away, everything fading into the background as a roaring sound built up in her ears and everything fell away into oblivion.

_Phil was dead._

Colours dimmed.

Sounds became distant.

And time just stopped.

 

* * *

 

Natasha was marble.

It was not something she enjoyed doing to her mind, but it was something she simply had no choice but to do, otherwise she was certain she would fall apart under the stress of everything that was happening and Phil's death.

Like Maria had said, she needed to take things one challenge at a time; it was the only way she would cope.

Right now, her challenge was this: look after Clint.

He did not look particularly well looked after, strapped down to a bed by his ankles and wrists, but Natasha was doing it for his own good.

She did not know what state he would be in when he woke, whether he would still be brainwashed or if he would be free from Loki's spell.

Just before she had knocked him out, he had seemed to break free from Loki's mind control, his eyes turning back to their natural shade of blue and calling her by her first name, but she was not willing to take any chances.

She sat down opposite his bed, her posture straight-backed and her mind as smooth and cold as marble as she waited for him to wake.

She waited for exactly 27 minutes and 18 seconds, her eyes watching every second as it ticked by on the clock on the wall, keeping her emotions tightly under wraps as she played the ballet routine over and over in her head.

Clint moaned, slowly shaking his head as he regained consciousness. His eyes were squeezed shut; his fists clenched tightly where they were strapped down by his sides.

"Clint," said Natasha. "You're going to be alright."

Clint finally opened his eyes and Natasha was relieved to see that they were back to their usual shade of blue.

"You know that?" said Clint. "Is that what you know?"

Natasha did not reply, standing up and pouring him a glass of water instead.

"I've got no window," said Clint, sounding desperate. "I have to flush him out."

Natasha set the glass of water down next to his bed.

"You've got to level out," she said firmly. "It's going to take time."

Clint shook his head, his eyes wide as he sweated visibly.

"You don't understand," he said. "Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Pull you out and stuff something else in? Do you know what it's like to be unmade?"

Natasha was still and silent.

The ballet routine faltered and died in her head as allowed herself to remember. She remembered how her heart had broken as she had watched Katerina snap Elena's neck in front of her. She remembered how she had thrown herself into her studies to cope with the grief. She remembered cutting out little Valentina Drakova's tongue without the slightest feeling of shame or remorse. She remembered killing James.

"You know that I do," she said, her voice shaking as the marble fell away from her mind, forcing her to feel all of it.

Clint breathed deeply, his head falling back against his pillows as he gazed up at Natasha.

"Why am I back?" he asked. "How did you get him out?"

"Cognitive recalibration," said Natasha. "I hit you really hard on the head."

"Thanks," said Clint.

They smiled at one another, and Natasha thought that the smile on Clint's face was quite possibly the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She had been so scared of never seeing him alive again, so  _fearful_ , that it was just the hugest relief to have him back.

She leaned over him, undoing his straps to set him free.

"Natasha," said Clint quietly. "How many agents did I-"

Natasha held up a hand to stop him from finishing his sentence.

"Don't," she said. "Don't do that to yourself, Clint. This is Loki. This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for."

At the mention of the Norse God's name, Clint's eyes darkened with anger.

"Loki," he echoed bitterly. "Did he get away?"

"Yeah," said Natasha. "I don't suppose you know where?"

Clint shook his head miserably.

"I didn't need to know," he said. "I didn't ask."

He swung his legs off the side of the bed, getting to his feet gingerly. Natasha walked over to the cell door, looking out of the bulletproof glass window to where an armed guard was standing watch.

"He's going to make his play soon, though," continued Clint, drinking the glass of water that Natasha had poured for him and then sitting back down on the bed. "Today."

"We've got to stop him," said Natasha, more aggressively than she intended.

"Yeah, who's 'we'?" asked Clint.

"I don't know," said Natasha, tearing her eyes away from the window to turn around and face him. "Whoever's left."

"Well, if I put an arrow through Loki's eye socket, I would sleep better, I suppose," quipped Clint.

Natasha smiled, crossing over to sit next to him on the bed.

"Now you sound like you," she said fondly.

Clint hummed, his gaze sweeping over her in a way that made her feel as though she was being x-rayed.

"But you don't," he said. "You're a spy, not a soldier, and now you want to wade into a war. Why? What did Loki do to you?"

Natasha blanched, quickly turning her gaze to the floor so that she would not have to meet Clint's penetrating stare.

"He didn't..." she stammered. "I just..."

Clint placed a gentle hand on hers. Natasha tried not to think about the fact that, not long ago, that same hand had tried to stab her.

"Natasha," he said softly.

Natasha sat in silence, remembering Loki's jibe.

_Can you wipe out that much red? Drakov's daughter, Sao Paulo, the hospital fire?_

Loki was right. She  _had_ done terrible things. It was time to atone, to make penance for her sins. Saving the world from Loki's sick schemes seemed like a good place to start.

"I've been compromised," she murmured. "I've got red on my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out."

Clint squeezed her hand gently, his touch grounding her and stopping her from spiralling.

"Clint," she said quietly, holding his hand tightly. "Phil's gone."

Clint froze beside her, his entire body going rigid. Natasha looked across at him, her heart clenching when she saw his face. His eyes were glistening with tears, his face pale and his jaw tight as he swallowed thickly.

He stood up abruptly, tearing his hand away from hers as he walked quickly to the bathroom.

"Excuse me," he said roughly, his voice breaking on the final syllable as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Natasha sat stock still on the bed as she listened to Clint's sobs, audible even above the sound of running water that he had no doubt turned on to try to hide the noise of his grief.

Clint and Phil had been friends for years. They had gone on holiday to Spain together, bought matching dream catchers and silly hats. They had gone to Yosemite National Park, shared a tent as they camped out under the stars. They had shared countless memories, special moments just between the two of them, each one unique and beautiful and overflowing with special meaning.

Clint sobbed for a good 20 minutes.

By the time he was done, Natasha had gone through an entire packet of tissues herself. The moment was broken by the cell door suddenly opening as Steve walked in.

"Time to go," he said.

"Go where?" asked Natasha, shoving the pile of used tissues under a pillow before he could see them.

"I'll tell you on the way," said Steve. "Can you fly one of those jets?"

Clint chose that moment to finally emerge from the bathroom, wiping his hands with a towel, his face looking freshly scrubbed and his eyes only slightly red.

"I can," he said.

Steve glanced across at him warily, unease and distrust written plain across his features. His eyes flicked to Natasha uncertainly, who nodded discreetly to confirm that Clint was on their side now. Natasha's say-so seemed to be all the confirmation Steve needed, as he then turned to Clint much more confidently, giving him a warm smile.

"You got a suit?" asked Steve.

"Yeah," said Clint.

"Then suit up."

The three of them left the cell, making their way to the part of the Helicarrier that held their equipment. Steve waited patiently as Clint grabbed a fresh set of arrows and Natasha pulled on a fresh pair of Widow's Bite electrocutors and grabbed more ammunition for her gun.

It took them less than a minute to 'suit up', as Steve put it, and then they were making their way to the top deck, jogging up the stairs in silence as they zeroed in on where the Quinjets were stored.

They emerged on the top deck and made a beeline for the closest Quinjet, walking up the ramp with quiet determination.

An engineer who was tinkering around in the back stuck his head out as they boarded the plane.

"Hey, you guys aren't authorised to be in here," he said.

Steve exhaled sharply, fixing the young engineer with his best Captain America stare.

"Son, just don't," he said.

The engineer looked uncertainly at the three of them, before wisely choosing to leave the Quinjet without a word, scarpering off to work on servicing another plane instead.

Clint settled in the pilot's seat, Natasha taking the seat next to him which put her in control of the Quinjet's exterior guns. Steve strapped himself in to a seat at the back of the plane.

"Where are we going, Cap?" asked Clint, starting up the Quinjet's engines.

"New York," said Steve. "Bruce's algorithm found the Tesseract. It's at Stark Tower in New York City. Tony's gone on ahead already in his Iron Man suit. Hopefully it won't take him too long to get there. We might be able to get there before Loki can open the portal."

"Loki's there?" Natasha said sharply.

Steve nodded.

"He escaped when, um, Agent Barton attacked the Helicarrier," he said, shooting an apologetic glance in Clint's direction.

Clint gritted his teeth, easing the Quinjet out onto the Helicarrier's main runway and taking off smoothly.

He tapped in New York's coordinates into the satellite navigation system, pushing the Quinjet on its course as quickly as he dared.

"Let's stop the bastard," he said grimly, his expression dark and determined.

The flight to New York took place mainly in silence, each of them mentally going through their pre-mission rituals.

This was going to be the fight of their lives.

 

* * *

 

They made it to New York in less than half an hour.

It was a testament to Clint's expert flying as he pushed the Quinjet to its absolute limits, flying at maximum speed for the entire journey, unheeding of the rough ride caused by the inevitable turbulence generated by travelling at such high speeds.

As they approached New York City, Natasha's mouth dropped open in horror. They were too late. A huge portal was already open above Stark Tower, with aliens riding what looked like flying snowmobiles spewing out of the portal and descending onto the city below.

As Natasha took in the horrifying scene, she caught sight of a flash of red and gold shooting through the sky, blasting aliens as he went.

Tony.

"Stark," she said, switching on the comms device and nestling a headset on her head. "We're on your three, headed northeast."

"What? Did you stop for drive-through?" said Tony, apparently unable to stop the wise-cracks even in the face of imminent global catastrophe. "Swing up Park. I'm going to lay them out for you."

Natasha ignored the quip, looking sharply out of the window as Clint guided the Quinjet over to Central Park.

She lowered the Quinjet's exterior gun, wrapping her fingers around the control stick that allowed her to aim and fire.

She saw Tony flying perpendicularly to the Quinjet's trajectory, a line of aliens – Chitauri – trailing after him as they chased him.

She exhaled slowly, remembering her thousands of hours of gun and weapons training as she gazed at the digital cross hairs displayed on the Quinjet's screen in front of her.

Tony whizzed by in a flash of red and gold. Natasha squeezed the Quinjet's gun's controller, shooting down the Chitauri that flew after him and right into Natasha's line of fire. One, two, three, four, five, six Chitauri spiralled down to Earth with plumes of smoke pouring from them. Natasha huffed out a satisfied sigh.

Clint guided the Quinjet up towards Stark Tower. As they approached, Natasha spotted two familiar figures fighting on the top, green and red capes flapping as they battled: Thor and Loki.

"Nat?" prompted Clint.

Natasha adjusted the Quinjet's gun so that Loki was firmly in the cross hairs. A spurt of satisfaction went through her as his sharp features displayed in the middle of the weapon targeting sights. This was vengeance for Clint.

"I see him," she said.

Natasha squeezed the trigger, firing off a blast in Loki's direction, but at the very last moment he dodged out of the way. Natasha swore viciously. Loki raised his sceptre, aiming it at the Quinjet. Natasha eyes widened, but before she could even shout a warning to Clint, Loki had let loose a bolt of energy from the sceptre, the wicked blue light striking the Quinjet's left engine.

Flames erupted from the engine as it blew out, the Quinjet immediately lurching to the side as it began to crash out of the sky.

Natasha let go of the gun controller, gripping onto the dashboard tightly as Clint wrestled with the controls. A building rushed up to meet them. For a moment, Natasha's heart stopped, fear paralysing her as she stared at the glass and metal of the building filling up the window.

At the last moment, Clint managed to get the Quinjet back under control, jerking the Quinjet onto a new trajectory that took them towards a thankfully empty square at ground level. The Quinjet hit the concrete with an almighty crash. Natasha lurched forwards in her seat, saved from crashing through the window only by the seat belt holding her in place.

The Quinjet skidded to a halt, coming to a rest at an angle due to the fact that the usual landing gear had not been deployed.

Natasha unbuckled herself from her seat, following Clint to the back of the plane as Steve slammed the button that lowered the ramp at the back of the Quinjet.

The three of them ran down the ramp out into the chaotic streets of New York. Natasha could smell burning and hear screaming; smoke rising and civilians running around in panic.

It was an enormous, terrible mess.

"We've got to get back up there," said Steve, staring up at the skies where Chitauri were flying around and blasting buildings with their weapons.

Natasha was just about to open her mouth to reply when a deep, groaning noise suddenly reverberated from the sky. She looked up at the portal, her words dying in her throat as she watched a gigantic, grotesque-looking  _thing_ emerge from the portal.

The thing looked like an enormous, deadly millipede, gliding through the air effortlessly as it undulated its long, armour-plated body. Natasha watched in horror as the giant millipede-like thing swooped down, moving past them with deadly speed and grace.

It was then that she saw that the millipede was not travelling solo. On its back were dozens more Chitauri soldiers, which were jumping off their host and onto the streets of New York in waves.

"Stark, are you seeing this?" asked Steve, pressing his finger against his comms device.

"Seeing, still working on believing," said Tony, for once sounding serious. "Where's Banner? Has he shown up yet?"

"Banner?" said Steve, sounding confused.

"Just keep me posted," said Tony, before they heard the tell-tale click that indicated he had temporarily switched off his comms.

Steve turned to Natasha and Clint with a worried look on his face.

"We've got civilians still trapped," he said, looking down at the street that ran below and perpendicular to theirs. Men, women and children were running around, screaming and crying as Chitauri picked them off one by one. "They're fish in the barrel down there."

Natasha pulled out her gun and started firing at the nearest Chitauri. She aimed at their heads, taking a gamble and assuming that their alien physiology was similar to that of a human. The Chitauri dropped dead as her shots hit home and Natasha let out a satisfied grunt as her hypothesis was confirmed.

"We got this, it's good," she said. "Go."

"Do you think you can hold them off?" asked Steve, already stretching his muscles as he limbered up.

"Captain," said Clint, as he pulled out an arrow and nocked it in his bow. "It would be my genuine pleasure."

Without any further discussion, Natasha began shooting as many Chitauri as she could see within range, concentrating on the lower levels whilst Clint focused on the Chitauri perched higher up, his arrows finding their mark with deadly accuracy.

Steve sprinted off in the direction of the panicked civilians, quickly being swallowed up by the dust thrown up by all the fighting. A sharp whistle from Clint drew Natasha's attention and she saw him nod to a nearby bus. She turned to look at it, realising with a jolt of horror that there were civilians trapped inside. Clint stowed his bow on his back, giving Natasha a quick nod before sprinting towards the bus.

Understanding Clint's meaning, Natasha narrowed her attention to the area around the bus and kept a sharp eye out for any Chitauri that might try to attack the fleeing civilians who Clint was currently helping escape the smouldering bus.

Once the last civilian was out, he ran back to Natasha's side, whipping out his bow once more and shooting any Chitauri that ventured close enough.

Something about their positioning – stood side by side, Clint to her right, her shooting and him with his bow and arrow – stirred something in Natasha's memory. Suddenly, she remembered how they had stood in the exact same position in the square outside the church in Budapest when the assailants in black had attacked them.

"Just like Budapest all over again!" she shouted, over the noise of the battle.

"You and I remember Budapest very differently," said Clint.

Before she could reply, she spotted a Chitauri eyeing up Clint hungrily and leapt on top of it, pulling out her knife and stabbing it in the neck, the alien's disgusting violet blood pouring out over her hands before it collapsed to the ground, dead.

Seeing the success of her technique, Clint pulled out his own knife and plunged it into the chest of a nearby Chitauri, slamming it down onto the ground.

Natasha clambered off her own slaughtered Chitauri and snatched its weapon out of its hands. It was shaped like a gun, although it seemed to blast out some form of blue energy rather than bullets.

Out of nowhere, a Chitauri came lurching towards her. Natasha span around, smashing the creature's head in with the gun, using her weight to build up deadly momentum. The Chitauri crumpled into a heap on the floor.

Returning her attention to the alien weapon in her hands, her fingers found what felt like a trigger and, without thinking, she pointed it in the face of a new Chitauri that was running towards her and fired once.

A burst of blue light shot out of the end, striking the Chitauri in the middle of the chest and knocking it down immediately. Natasha felt a flare of triumph. She had always had a talent for shooting; apparently the type of gun did not matter.

The familiar colours of red, white and blue moved into her peripheral vision as Steve returned, having cleared the area below of civilians.

The combined target of Natasha, Clint and Steve seemed to egg on the Chitauri, however, and soon, to Natasha's horror, they began descending on them in thick waves, coming faster than they could be killed.

Just as Natasha thought they were going to be overwhelmed, a huge bolt of lightning cracked through the air, somehow striking all the approaching Chitauri whilst leaving Natasha, Clint and Steve unscathed.

The culprit – Thor – landed next to them, the smell of lightning and ozone surrounding him like cologne.

"What's the story upstairs?" asked Steve.

"The power surrounding the cube is impenetrable," said Thor.

Suddenly, Tony's voice crackled back into life as he re-joined comms.

"Thor's right," he said. "We've got to deal with these guys."

The sound of Tony blasting Chitauri was clearly audible in the background of the comms feed.

"How do we do this?" asked Natasha.

"As a team," said Steve firmly.

"I have unfinished business with Loki," said Thor.

Clint visibly glowered as he twisted a new head onto one of his arrows.

"Oh yeah?" he said darkly. "Well, get in line..."

"Save it," said Steve. "Loki's going to keep this fight focused on us, and that's what we need. Without him, these things could run wild. We got Stark up top. He's going to need us to-"

He was cut off by the sound of a motorbike approaching, the mundane sound of the engine a strange contrast to the madness going on around them. They all turned to see Bruce, in a new set of clothes, Natasha noticed, sitting stride a motorbike as he trundled to a stop in front of them.

He clambered off the motorbike awkwardly, his hair even more tousled than usual and with bags under his eyes.

"So, this all seems horrible," he said.

"I've seen worse," said Natasha, before she could stop herself.

Bruce grimaced as he looked at her apologetically.

"Sorry," he said, his eyes wide and beseeching.

Natasha hummed contemplatively, pondering the difference it would make if they could somehow harness the Hulk's destructive power and use it against the Chitauri.

"No, it's OK," she said. "We could use a little worse."

Steve pressed his finger against his ear to speak through comms.

"Stark," he said. "We got him."

"Banner?" said Tony.

"Just like you said," replied Steve.

Natasha heard Tony give a pleased hum through her earpiece.

"Then tell him to suit up," he said. "I'm bringing the party to you."

Natasha frowned, exchanging confused glances with her teammates before her eyes bulged and her jaw dropped as she saw Tony zooming towards them, the huge millipede-like creature following him lazily. Its huge mouth was open wide, revealing row after row of razor-sharp teeth.

"I don't see how that's a party," she said faintly.

Bruce began walking forwards, putting himself between the millipede-like creature and the rest of the Avengers.

"Dr Banner," said Steve. "Now might be a really good time for you to get angry."

Bruce smiled over his shoulder as he continued walking forwards, his stance calm and relaxed.

"That's my secret, Captain," he said. "I'm always angry."

Natasha watched, open-mouthed, as Bruce transformed before their eyes, his muscles bulging and his skin turning from flesh-coloured to green in a matter of seconds.

The Hulk raised his fist, punching the millipede-like creature square in the face, stopping it in its tracks. The creature slowly began flipping over itself, its back still moving forwards even though its front had been well and truly stopped. It disintegrated as it flipped, its plates of armour falling away to reveal the tender flesh of the creature underneath.

"Hold on!" said Tony, firing missiles from the Iron Man suit at the creature's exposed flesh, peppering it with explosions and projectiles.

Natasha stared as the creature continued to flip and fall apart. It was close, too close to run away from. She was going to be crushed, squashed beneath an alien millipede. Of all the ways she had imagined dying, it had not been like this.

Before she could draw breath to swear, Steve grabbed hold of her, wrapping his body behind her and forcing her to crouch forwards as he shielded her from the falling debris. He raised his shield above their heads, the vibranium clanging loudly as it took the hits that otherwise would have cut Steve and her down into pieces.

After what felt like an age, the cacophony of falling debris stopped. Natasha slowly stood up, her hands shaking as she patted Steve on the arm with gratitude.

The six of them stood in a circle, facing outwards – Natasha, Clint, Steve, Thor, Tony and the Hulk. Natasha felt a sudden rush of fierce pride. They were a team. The odds were stacked against them, but they were stronger together. They would fight as a team – for New York, for the world, for Phil.

A deep groaning sound from above caught Natasha's attention and she gazed upwards at the portal, her stomach plunging when she saw several more of the millipede-like creatures emerging out of the wormhole.

"Guys," he said, nodding up at the portal and the newcomers.

"Call it, Captain," Tony said seriously, using Steve's title for the first time.

"All right, listen up. Until we can close that portal, our priority is containment. Barton, I want you on that roof," said Steve, pointing up to the roof of one of the nearby high-rise buildings. "Eyes on everything. Call out patterns and strays. Stark, you got the perimeter. Anything gets more than three blocks out, you turn it back or you turn it to ash."

Clint nodded.

"Can you give me a lift?" he said, turning to Tony.

"Right," said Tony. "Better clench up, Legolas."

Tony blasted off into the sky, his arm wrapped tight around Clint's torso as he took him to the top of the building.

"Thor, you've got to try and bottleneck that portal," continued Steve. "Slow them down. You've got the lightning. Light the bastards up."

Thor nodded, spinning his hammer to build up speed and then flying off into the air towards the portal.

"You and me, we stay here on the ground," said Steve, turning to Natasha. "We keep the fighting here. And Hulk... Smash."

The Hulk grinned, his huge teeth bared and bright, before bounding off to fight some nearby Chitauri.

Natasha turned her attention to a new wave of Chitauri that were beginning to circle her and Steve. The closest one lurched forwards, knocking her off-balance and pinning her down against the bonnet of a car.

Ignoring the pain that flared up in her ribs under its weight, she wrapped her legs around its waist to anchor herself, before pulling back her fist and punching it hard in the face. It staggered backwards, allowing Natasha to surge upwards and press her Widow's Bite to its throat, electrocuting it immediately. It collapsed to the ground, dropping its weapon. She picked it up deftly, firing it with a blast of blue energy. It stopped moving.

The sound of footsteps behind her had her swinging around on instinct, bringing up her stolen Chitauri gun to point it at her new assailant as her heart hammered in her chest. It was Steve. Memories of The Interview flooded her mind, the shooting targets with red and blue circles in their centres moving around on thin wires.

_Blue._

_Don't shoot._

She let out a shaky exhale, lowering her weapon slowly as she forced her body to relax.

"Captain," she said. "None of this is going to mean a damn thing if we don't close that portal."

"Our biggest guns couldn't touch it," said Steve.

Natasha chewed on her bottom lip. The Tesseract was small and powerful, resistant to any attempt to overpower it. It made her think of the Red Room Academy girls; in many ways, they were similar. She thought back to what had made her turn her back on the Red Room Academy's doctrines and use her skills for good. It had not been force. It had been something a lot more intricate than that.

"Maybe it's not about guns," she said thoughtfully, her eyes flicking up to Stark Tower where the Tesseract was holding the portal open.

Steve's eyes followed her gaze.

"If you want to get up there, you're going to need a ride," he said.

Natasha's gaze dropped from Stark Tower to the air above them where Chitauri were whizzing past on their flying snowmobiles.

She threw the Chitauri gun to the ground and started walking away from Steve, putting enough distance between them that she would have a long enough run up.

"I've got a ride," she said. "I could use a boost, though."

Steve's eyes widened as he cottoned on to her meaning. He squatted down, holding his shield up over his head to give her something to jump off.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked anxiously.

Natasha smiled with more confidence than she felt.

"Yeah," she said. "It's going to be fun."

Gathering her concentration, she sprinted towards Steve, jumping up onto his shield and using the bounce that he provided to propel herself high in the air.

She reached out, her hands grabbing onto the back of one of the Chitauri's flying machines, her whole body getting yanked forwards as it continued on its trajectory, the alien pilots unaware of their human passenger.

The joints of her elbows threatened to pop from the extreme forces being exerted on her body, but she pushed away the pain and focused on pulling herself up onto the vehicle, slowly clambering aboard behind the two Chitauri pilots.

She saw a chain tethering the back one to the vehicle and briefly wondered whether they were being forced to fight for Loki against their will. She forced herself to ignore the sudden pang of doubt that the chain elicited, withdrawing a knife and cutting through the chain. She kicked the Chitauri off before it even noticed her presence.

Turning her attention to the remaining Chitauri pilot, she crawled up behind it before straightening up, plunging the knife into this one's back without any hesitation. The pilot slumped at the controls, the aircraft giving a frightening jolt as it swooped downwards.

Natasha grabbed hold of the controls, wrestling with what looked like a steering wheel but seemed to have much less sensitivity than the controls she was used to.

"OK, turn, turn," she muttered to herself. "Less, less!"

She narrowly avoided crashing into a building, her heart in her mouth as the glass and metal whooshed past mere inches away.

Her aircraft gave an almighty jolt as it was hit from behind by some kind of weapon. She twisted around to see none other than Loki flying behind her, firing shots at her as she wove through air between the buildings of New York's central district, trying to evade him.

"Hawkeye!" she shouted over comms.

"Nat, what are you  _doing_?" Clint replied immediately.

Natasha clenched her teeth, swerving her aircraft to avoid another of Loki's blasts.

"Uh," she managed. "A little help?!"

"I got him," said Clint, his tone sounding calm and no small amount satisfied.

A few seconds later, Natasha heard an explosion behind her. It seemed Clint's arrow had found its mark.

She flew the aircraft up to the top of Stark Tower, thankfully without being accosted by any other Chitauri or Norse Gods, jumping off the vehicle as soon as she reached the roof, flipping herself and rolling gracefully as she landed on the gravel.

She straightened up, seeing a middle-aged man with grey hair and blue eyes slumped on the ground – Dr Erik Selvig, she assumed. Beside him, the Tesseract was glowing blue and bright, energy shooting vertically to where it was holding the portal open above them.

"The sceptre..." croaked Erik.

"Doctor," Natasha said gently, walking over to him.

The scientist's eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had been crying.

"Loki's sceptre," he said miserably. "The energy. The Tesseract can't fight. You can't protect against yourself."

Natasha laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, stroking him in calm, soothing motions.

"It's not your fault," she said softly. "You didn't know what you were doing."

Erik's lips trembled as he looked up at her.

"Actually, I think I did," he said, just the slightest hint of hope in his voice. "I built in a safety to cut their power source."

Natasha's eyes widened as she understood his meaning.

"Loki's sceptre..." she said.

Erik nodded.

"It may be able to close the portal," he said, peering over the edge of the balcony. "And I'm looking right at it."

Natasha dashed over to the edge of the balcony, looking down to where Loki's sceptre was laying on another balcony one level below.

She ran to the heavy metal door that led into Stark Tower, wrenching it open and running down the stairs two at a time. She emerged in a maintenance corridor, trusting her sense of direction to guide her to where she needed to be.

She ran out into a luxurious-looking lounge, a large bar running along one side of the room. Loki was lying in the middle of the room, the floor around him smashed up as if someone had physically picked him up and thrown him down like a rag doll. He moaned pitifully.

Natasha ran past him, out onto the balcony to where the sceptre laid, the end glowing blue. Her stomach lurched when she saw the end of it was still stained with blood –  _Phil's_ blood – but she swallowed past the lump in her throat, blinking back tears as she turned on her heel and retraced her steps, running back up to the top of the tower.

Erik gave her a relieved smile when she returned. He was looking less shaken now, his expression a little more focused as he stood up next to an open laptop.

"Right on the crown!" he said, pointing at the Tesseract.

Natasha edged closer and closer to the Tesseract, her skin prickling and the hairs on her arms rising as she approached, the cube not so much radiating heat as just  _energy_.

She slowly pushed the sceptre forwards, her heart leaping with shock and triumph as it began to penetrate the force field around the Tesseract.

"I can close it," she shouted. "Can anybody copy? I can shut the portal down."

"Do it!" said Steve.

"No, wait," said Tony, sounding uncharacteristically serious.

"Stark, these things are still coming," said Steve.

There was the tiniest hesitation before Tony replied, a miniscule pause that spoke volumes from the man who usually would not shut up.

"I've got a nuke coming in," he said gravely. "It's gonna blow in less than a minute. And I know just where to put it."

Natasha flinched with shock as she realised what Tony intended to do. She heard Steve gasp over comms as he apparently came to the same terrible realisation.

"Stark," he said weakly. "You know that's a one way trip..."

Tony did not reply, having apparently cut himself off from comms once more.

Natasha watched, spellbound and horrified, as Tony sped towards her, his arms wrapped tight around a nuclear bomb as he slowly nudged it upwards. His trajectory curved from horizontal to vertical, flying past within metres of Stark Tower as he raced upwards, still clutching the bomb as he sped towards the portal.

Natasha felt a lump form in her throat, her eyes prickling with tears. She had been wrong about Tony. She had assumed he was arrogant and selfish. She had been so blinded by the blazing persona he projected outwards that she had failed to see that it was simply a facade, a falsehood that stopped the world from seeing the real Tony, the one who had flaws and fears just like everybody else.

She felt ashamed for having thought so little of him, for thinking that he was not worthy of being on their team. She had never respected him, had judged him instantly and written him off as just another arrogant jerk, and she had been wrong; Tony was sacrificing himself, flying up towards the portal, racing towards certain death.

Out of all of them, Tony was the one who was most deserving of the title of  _Avenger_.

Natasha wished he had not waited until his final hour to reveal his true colours. She wished she had paid him more respect. She did not think she had said a single nice thing to him.

Tony disappeared into the portal.

Around them, Chitauri soldiers and the huge flying millipedes collapsed to the ground, seemingly dead as their connection to the mothership was severed by the exploding nuke.

The seconds trickled by, her heart hammering as she craned her neck to stare up into the sky, her eyes watering against the brightness.

Tony did not emerge from the portal.

"Come on, Stark," she whispered, willing him to fall from the portal and emerge back into their world.

She would give anything for him to be saved, anything to congratulate him on a job well done and to apologise for the lack of respect with which she had treated him.

"Close it," said Steve quietly.

Natasha closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them again and pressing the sceptre to the centre of the Tesseract.

The result was immediate. The swirling blue energy cut out, depriving the portal of its food source. Above them, the portal shrank and shrank, converging to a single point before it finally disappeared.

Natasha blinked.

Where the wormhole had been just a moment before, was now clear sky. Or perhaps not entirely clear...

Tony fell earthwards, flipping in his suit as he accelerated towards the ground. Natasha let out a long sigh of relief, her chest aching with emotion as she gazed her teammate.

"Son of a gun," said Steve, sounding just as relieved.

"He's not slowing down," said Thor.

Natasha watched in horror as Tony continued speeding towards the ground. Either he was unconscious or the suit simply was not working. She was not sure which was a more terrifying thought.

Something huge and green leaped up, grabbing hold of Tony. The Hulk cradled Tony to his chest as they fell the final few hundred metres together, the Hulk slowing down their descent to something much more survivable.

Natasha listened intently over comms as they disappeared from view, hidden by the tall buildings surrounding them.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Natasha clenched her fists anxiously.

The Hulk's deafening roar sounded down comms, followed immediately by the sound of Tony yelling in panic.

"Whoa, whoa! What just happened?" he garbled. "Please tell me nobody kissed me."

She heard Steve laugh gently over comms.

"We won," he said.

"Alright, yey! Hurray. Good job, guys," said Tony. "Let's just not come in tomorrow. Let's just take a day. Have you ever tried shawarma? There's a shawarma joint about two blocks from here. I don't know what it is, but I want to try it."

He was babbling. It was another front, Natasha realised at last, for his panic and anxiety that lay just underneath the surface.

"We're not finished yet," said Thor.

There was a tiny pause before Tony spoke.

"And then shawarma after?" he said.

"We need to find Loki," said Thor, his voice booming even over the comms.

Natasha pressed her finger to her ear to activate her device.

"He's at Stark Tower," she said. "Looks like he's taken a fair beating in your lounge, Tony."

They arrived within minutes, the Hulk carrying Clint, Tony carrying Steve and Thor bringing up the tail.

They descended the steps down the Tony's lounge with Natasha, entering the room just as Loki seemed to be stirring.

They fanned out in a defensive line, each of them pointing whatever weapon they had towards Loki.

The green-eyed God looked up at them sheepishly, unable or unwilling to get up from his position on the floor.

"If it's all the same to you," he said. "I'll have that drink now."

Thor strode forwards, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and a metal gag. Natasha could see intricate patterns etched into them, presumably of Asgardian design.

Thor restrained his brother, giving a satisfied grunt when he was done.

"The inscriptions in the metal stop his powers from working," he explained. "He is now as powerless as a feeble human."

Clint raised an eyebrow at Natasha at Thor's comment. She shook her head good-naturedly.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"We'll take it from here," said a familiar male voice.

They all turned to see Director Fury and Maria emerging from the lift.

"JARVIS! Security breach!" squawked Tony.

Director Fury raised his eyebrows, silencing Tony with a stern look.

"The New York SHIELD hospital facility has a nuclear bunker in the basement," said Director Fury. "It'll hold him."

Thor nodded, handing over Loki to the two agents.

Natasha watched as he limped away, his tattered green cap trailing behind him.

Loki had caused unimaginable pain. He had killed countless civilians, raped Clint and Erik's minds, traumatised plenty of innocent New Yorkers and for what? For nothing more than selfishness, greed and power.

In Natasha's mind, even if he was set free on his very last day alive, that would be one day too soon.

 

* * *

 

As Tony had requested, they went out for shawarma.

Natasha was not entirely sure what shawarma  _was_ , but she went along anyway, unable to think of an adequate excuse to get out of it.

She apologised to Tony for underestimating him, and he briefly looked touched for a moment, before his cheeky facade slipped down once more and he ruined it with an innuendo.

Shawarma turned out to be slow grilled meat with vegetables in a wrap.

The six Avengers sat in silence in a circle as they ate.

Natasha positioned herself between her two closest friends, Clint and Steve, with Tony, Thor and a de-Hulked Bruce on the other side of the circle.

The meat was tender; the juices succulent.

Natasha was sure that, objectively, it was delicious, but at that moment she was so mentally and physically drained that she was not sure she would notice if someone switched out her shawarma for cardboard.

She knew she should be celebrating – she had just literally helped save the  _world_ – but all she could think about was what it had cost.

Phil had lost his life.

Clint had almost lost his mind.

The last week had been full of death and tragedy, and she did not feel that it deserved a celebration.

She knew that, soon, she would have to sleep, and when she woke, her mind would no longer be made of marble.

But she was not ready for that just yet.

For now, she was content to just eat, her mind blank and blissfully numb.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Thor went to the SHIELD nuclear bunker where Loki was being held and demanded he be released to face Asgardian justice.

Director Fury had quietly complied, releasing Loki to the care of his older brother.

The Avengers stood in Central Park, watching as Thor and Loki faced one another, Loki still shackled and gagged.

Erik Selvig brought out a cylindrical container with two handles at either end.

Natasha watched as Bruce used a pair of heavy duty tongs to lift the Tesseract into the container, where it glowed blue briefly before slotting into place.

Erik looked troubled, no doubt feeling intense guilt for his part in Loki's schemes. Thor seemed to notice his discomfort and patted him gently on the shoulder.

Beside her, Clint shifted uneasily, the movement likely gone unseen to the untrained eye. Natasha was far from untrained.

She leaned in to whisper in his ear, her curly hair tickling his neck.

"Just how badly is Loki going to have the shit kicked out of him when he goes back home to Daddy Dearest, do you think?" she muttered.

Clint smiled – a small, broken thing – but it was better than the miserable look that had been on his face a few seconds before, so Natasha counted it as a victory.

They watched sombrely as Thor and Loki each grabbed hold of one of the handles at either end of the Tesseract's container, before Thor twisted his end of the contraption, sending them disappearing in a swirl of blue light.

They stared at the spot where they had vanished for several long moments, an air of finality settling over the group.

As if on autopilot, Natasha drifted over to her rented SHIELD car, pulling out Bruce's belongings which had been given to her earlier that morning by a junior agent.

She walked over to Bruce, handing him his bag and giving him a smile before he walked off to where Tony was waiting in an obscenely expensive-looking super-car. She watched as the two of them drove off in a roar of sound, before turning to hug Steve before he too left, on his motorbike.

She and Clint stood in silence as they watched him go.

"You can come and stay with me at the farmhouse for a while, if you want," offered Clint.

Natasha shook her head numbly.

"I just want to go home and be alone for a while," she said, avoiding eye contact.

Clint seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, looking visibly conflicted, before he sighed, all the fight draining out of his muscles.

"OK," he said grudgingly. "Promise me you'll call?"

Natasha nodded, already walking away from Clint towards her car.

"I will," she said.

She did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DIALOGUE: "Wow," I hear you say. "A lot of this dialogue sounds mightily familiar." Ah, well done for noticing! Most of the lines in this chapter have been taken from the film. It took me a full day to transcribe all of Natasha's scenes, but the result is a chapter that is as canon-compliant as possible, so I'm happy with it - I hope you are too!
> 
> CANON TIE-INS: If you watch the film, you'll notice that there are various parts of Natasha's past that I've written in this story that fit into canon...
> 
> At the beginning of the film, when Phil calls Natasha to let her know that Clint has been compromised, he watches a clip of them fighting, with "Abidjan Operation" and "STRIKE Team: Delta" written in small text on the screen. (This inspired Chapter 25 of Fearless)
> 
> In her conversation with Loki, he references Drakov's daughter, Sao Paulo and the hospital fire. (This inspired Chapters 9, 17 and 11 of Fearless, respectively)
> 
> In her conversation with Loki, she says that love is for children. (This is inspired Chapter 8 of Fearless)
> 
> When Natasha and Clint are fighting side by side, Natasha says that it reminds her of Budapest all over again. (This inspired Chapter 20 of Fearless)
> 
> FORESHADOWING: Well done if you noticed Clint's mention of Bruce at the end of the chapter "Sao Paulo" :)
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "J Is For..." and will focus on Phil's funeral. It is going to hurt, but I hope it will be a beautiful kind of hurt.
> 
> THANK YOU: Thank you to everyone who has left such wonderful, kind comments. Seeing "AO3: Comment on Fearless" in my inbox is such a nice way to wake up in the morning and always sets me up for a good mood! You're the best readers a writer could hope for. I appreciate each and every one of you <3


	29. J Is For...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Grief / sadness.
> 
> As always, [chapter art](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/160845549676/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter).

2012 – Aged 28

 

* * *

 

Natasha drove all night from New York back home.

She bought cheap black coffee at service stations, drinking it down piping hot. It scolded her tongue and burnt her throat, but she did not care.

She was numb, going through the motions as mile after mile of empty highway slipped by in silence.

The sun set. Natasha drove. The sky darkened from navy to black, and after three more cups of too hot coffee, it began to lighten again, imperceptibly at first, until the black changed back to navy and then to a lighter blue.

The sunrise was beautiful, all reds and pinks and golds lighting up the sky in a celebration of colour. It was stunning. It was beautiful. It was obscene.

The sunrise had no right to be so pretty. There was nothing to celebrate. Phil was gone.

Phil had loved sunrises.

Natasha drove.

She returned home to her and Phil's flat at around 8:30am.

She let herself in to the block of flats and took the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.

She arrived at their front door. By their doormat was a parcel. It must have come during the last week, whilst she and Phil had both been away stopping Loki's plan.

She bent down to inspect it. It was addressed to Mr P Coulson. She ripped away the paper, revealing a neatly ordered pile of New Scientist magazines. Oh yes, Phil had mentioned he was expecting the delivery.

He had loved science.

She carefully stepped away from the pile of magazines, fishing her key out of her pocket and blindly shoving it into the lock. The door swung open. She stepped inside.

It was dusty.

It was barely anything. Just the finest, thinnest layer of dust, but she and Phil were usually so on top of their housework that dust never had the opportunity to form. She stared at the dust, breathing it into her lungs. It felt different. It felt wrong.

"I guess I've got to do the housework then, huh?" she said. "Are you really not going to help me out, Phil?"

Phil, of course, did not answer.

Natasha walked slowly through the kitchen and into their living room, noting how strangely spacious it felt.

She walked through all the rooms, expecting things to be different for some reason, but, of course, everything was exactly how she and Phil had left it one week previously.

The only thing that was different was this odd, empty feeling that flat now held. It was as if someone had sucked out all the air and replaced it with some cheap substitute.

She drifted around the flat alone.

It was too quiet, too big for one person.

She tried singing, but it felt loud and jarring in the still, dusty air, so she stopped.

Eventually, she went back to her room. She sat down on her bed. Despite driving all night, she was not tired.

She got up and walked to Phil's bedroom, standing outside his door for a good five minutes. She returned to her own room. A few minutes later, she got up again, walking to stand outside Phil's door.

He had left the door open.

She could see his neatly-made bed. He had the navy duvet with the pale blue stripes on today. Or rather, last Tuesday. On his shelf, she could see the model replica of his beloved car Lola. On his walls, framed posters of Captain America hung in pride of place, as well as a couple of posters of some jazz band who Natasha did not know.

His room was waiting for him, perfectly ready for him to walk in and flop down on the bed. She turned around, half expecting to see him grinning and walking towards her, a glass of cranberry juice in his hand as always.

He was not there.

She turned back to his bedroom, her heart clenching as she stared into his personal space.

It hurt, to look into his bedroom. It was Phil's special place, his private place, his home. It was so overwhelmingly intimate that Natasha thought she might scream from looking at it.

She considered closing his bedroom door. If she closed it, she would no longer have to look inside, and then it might hurt a little less.

She reached for the door knob but stopped herself at the last moment. After a few seconds of internal debate, her hand fell limply to her side.

She could not do it.

 _Phil_ had left his bedroom door open. She did not want to change that. She did not want to undo his last action to that door.

It was trivial, but it felt important.

She went back to the kitchen, suddenly starving after a night of filling her stomach with nothing but cheap black coffee.

She rummaged through the cupboards and fridge.

"We're going to have to go shopping, Phil," she said. "Everything’s gone off."

She pottered around the kitchen, toasting some bagels and putting on a healthy dose of cheese spread.

"I still can't believe you've never eaten bagels," she said. " _You're_ meant to be the American here."

Phil did not reply.

She missed him desperately.

He was there, in the gaps in the conversations as Natasha talked to herself, in the empty chair opposite hers at the kitchen table, in the box of sugary cereal that sat on the kitchen counter that Phil loved but Natasha hated.

The cranberry juice sat in the fridge, untouched.

 

* * *

 

Clint called her.

Natasha ignored it.

He called every few hours, left text messages, and every time, Natasha would look blankly at her phone, see that it was not Phil, and put it down.

The following day, a knock at the front door dragged Natasha from where she had been hiding under her duvet.

It was 1pm.

She shuffled down the hallway and through the kitchen, not bothering to look through the spy hole before flinging the door open listlessly.

It was Clint.

Natasha sighed, already closing the door.

Clint stepped forward stubbornly, placing his bulk between the door and the door frame so that it would not shut.

"Please leave," said Natasha.

Clint folded his arms and shook his head, a small frown creasing his forehead.

"No," he said. "I'm worried about you."

Natasha's eyes fell to the floor to where Phil's pile of New Scientist magazines was still stacked outside the front door. Her eyes filled with tears.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Yeah, and I'm the Virgin Mary," snorted Clint, pushing past her into the flat.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft click.

Natasha watched him, following his movements but feeling nothing.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

Clint's expression softened as he turned around to face her, taking her hands into his and holding them gently.

"Because I'm worried about you," he said. "Laura is too. You've not answered any of my calls or texts. I know how close you and Phil were. I don't think you should be alone right now. I want to support you."

Natasha was silent for a long moment. She could easily tackle him to the floor and knock him out. That did not seem appropriate though, in the stillness of the flat. And perhaps a small part of her realised that Clint was right. She was not OK. Maybe she should allow Clint to help her.

"How did you and Phil meet?" she asked suddenly.

The question slipped from her lips with a desperation she had not even realised she felt. She wanted to know everything there was to know about Phil. She wanted to fill in the blanks from the parts of his life she was not familiar with. She wanted to know his full story.

Clint looked surprised at the question but the expression was quickly replaced by a wistful-looking smile.

"In a cell in a police station," he said.

Natasha's eyebrows shot up.

"What, you went on a crime spree together?" she said.

Clint laughed softly as he shook his head.

They both moved to the kitchen table, settling down in the chairs as Natasha leaned forward to listen to Clint's story.

"No," he said. "I was the trouble-maker, not Phil. You remember I told you I left home as soon as I turned 18 to get away from my violent dad?"

Natasha nodded. She remembered the time Clint had told her about his childhood when they had baked cookies in his kitchen soon after she first arrived in the US. Clint's childhood was a sad tale. She was indescribably proud of him for giving Cooper and Lila such a different upbringing.

"Well, it turns out that there aren't many jobs out there for an 18-year-old with minimal qualifications," continued Clint. "So as well as doing odd jobs as a handyman, I supplemented my income by, uh, shoplifting. I only ever stole what I needed – food, washing tablets, stuff like that – but it turns out Walmart doesn't appreciate having their goods stolen even when the person really needs them. A security guard caught me and chased me. Turns out he was ex-Army. He caught me eventually, but only after chasing me for two miles over rooftops and through a building's air conditioning system."

Natasha laughed. It sounded exactly like something Clint would do.

"What were you even trying to steal?" she asked.

"Two loaves of bread," said Clint, without batting an eyelid. "So anyway, the security guard hauled me to the nearest police station, except by this time we'd attracted quite a bit of attention with our acrobatic display, so there was quite a crowd around us. I got chucked in a cell and told that a lawyer was on their way to help me out. Phil got there first. Told me that if he could get the shoplifting charges dropped if I was willing to train as a SHIELD agent. He said that my display running and leaping around the rooftops made him think I had potential as a field agent."

"He saved you," said Natasha.

Clint nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "If it wasn't for Phil, I'd probably have just got chucked into jail. Laura would have left me. Life would have been totally different. He saw the good in me when no one else did. He did the same for you by training you as a SHIELD agent before The Interview, I guess. He saved both of us. He  _believed_ in us."

They lapsed into silence.

Natasha felt her respect for Phil grow even more. He had seen the potential in Clint and offered him a chance, when any other agent probably would not even have looked twice in Clint's direction.

Phil saw the good in people. He believed in people. To Phil, the world must have been full of everyday superheroes.

"I found Phil's spare SHIELD ID card behind the bread," said Natasha, pulling the small rectangle of plastic out of her pocket. "I don't know what to do with it."

Clint dragged his chair around the table to sit next to Natasha, looking down at the ID card with her.

For a while, neither of them said anything. They stared down at Phil's face on the card. Natasha had memorised every line on his face, the exact placement of his hair, the way his eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled at the photographer.

Natasha supposed he was reasonably good-looking for a middle-aged man, but that was not why she found him beautiful. His true beauty was within: his kindness, his attentiveness, his ready smile, the way he was willing to see past a person's history and look at the story they were writing in the present.

He had a beautiful soul, the kind that was rare in its brightness.

He was unique.

"What does the J stand for?" asked Clint.

Natasha looked up at him in confusion.

"What?"

Clint pointed at the ID card, his finger tracing over his name, lingering over the middle initial that Natasha had not noticed before.

**Phillip J. Coulson**

Natasha frowned. She could not remember Phil ever mentioning that he even  _had_ a middle name, let alone what it was. It was typical Phil. He never spoke much about himself. He preferred to focus on other people. He was selfless like that.

"I don't know," she said. "He never said."

They sat in silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts.

Clint broke the silence by laughing suddenly.

"Maybe it stood for something stupid," he said. "Like Jar Jar Binks."

Natasha snorted.

"Wouldn't that make his name Phillip J. J. B. Coulson?" she replied, her lips curving into a smile for the first time in days.

Clint shook his head seriously.

"Not if it was all one word," he said. "Jarjarbinks."

Natasha smiled, shaking her head.

The atmosphere in the room felt lighter. Even after he was gone, Phil was still making them feel better.

"Tell me about the time you and Phil went on vacation to Spain together," she said. "Tell me the story behind the matching dream catchers."

She wanted to know everything.

Clint smiled, and he told her.

 

* * *

 

Several days later, a knock at the door pulled Natasha and Clint away from a photo album they were flicking through.

Natasha reluctantly tore her eyes away from a photo of Phil grinning in a ridiculous multi-coloured hat and crossed over to the front door, Clint trailing in her wake.

She opened the door, her eyebrows rising in surprise as she was greeted by a swathe of black leather.

"Agent Romanoff, Agent Barton," greeted Director Fury, nodding politely.

Natasha pulled the door fully open to allow him to enter.

"Hey," she said.

Director Fury walked in. Natasha led the three of them into the living room, where they would have space to talk about whatever Director Fury was here to talk about.

They settled down on the sofas, Natasha and Clint sitting down next to each other on one, Director Fury taking the other.

"How're you both holding up?" asked the Director.

Natasha and Clint exchanged pained glances. The last few days had been filled with stories of Phil and countless tears. Sometimes, Natasha felt numb, and other times, it felt as though her chest had been ripped open and the tears would never stop.

"It's tough," said Natasha eventually. "But we're helping one another out."

Director Fury nodded, looking at them sympathetically.

"I know you were both very close to Phil," he said.

Natasha ducked her head. 'Close' was an understatement.

"What're you doing here?" asked Clint. "Do you need us to come in?"

Director Fury shook his head quickly.

"Nothing like that," he said. "I'm here to let you know that all of Phil's belongings will be collected from here on Friday."

Natasha blanched.

It felt too soon to take Phil's belongings away. The pain was too fresh; the grief too raw. To take his things away would create a sense of finality that she was not ready to face yet.

"Why?" she asked, her voice coming out rough and low.

Director Fury's expression closed off minutely, as if he was hiding something.

_Strange._

"It's classified," he said.

Natasha's brow creased into a frown. Classified? Why was it so important to take Phil's belongings away? And why was the reason being kept a secret?

"Why?" said Clint, sounding as confused as Natasha felt.

Director Fury's nostrils flared as he took a deep breath.

"I need you to trust me," he said. "There's a good reason for everything I do. One day, you'll understand."

Natasha could not think of a good reason that would explain why Director Fury had to take away all of Phil's possessions, but she decided not to press the matter. Trying to get Director Fury to give up information he did not want to divulge was like asking the moon to riverdance; it was not going to happen.

"That's not the only reason I'm here," continued Director Fury, his expression softening. "Phil has no family. SHIELD was his family. Would you two like to give the main speech at his funeral? He considered you guys to be his two best friends. I can't think of anyone else he'd rather have give him his last farewell."

His last farewell.

Goodbye.

Natasha's throat swelled up with emotion.

It was too soon to say goodbye.

She was not ready.

"Yes," whispered Clint, his voice breaking on the single syllable. "It'd be an honour."

She groped blindly for Clint's hand, holding onto it tightly as her vision blurred with tears. A broken sob escaped from her lips. She turned her face away immediately, ashamed by the display of weakness. She was supposed to be strong.

"It's OK not to be," said Clint, wrapping his arms around her to pull her into a hug.

Natasha choked. She had not realised she had spoken aloud.

Director Fury stood to leave, heading towards the door to give them privacy.

"The funeral is on Friday," he said gently. "At SHIELD Memorial Gardens in Washington DC. I'll arrange for Phil's belongings to be collected during the ceremony, so as not to disturb you here."

With that, he exited the flat, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Natasha curled up, allowing Clint to hold her gently, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. She clung to his hand. He clung back just as tightly.

For a long while, they sat there quietly, the noise of tissues crumpling and their occasional sniffs the only sounds breaking the silence.

Eventually, Natasha pulled out a sheet of paper, smoothing it out in front of them on the coffee table.

They stared at it. The blank page stared back.

Where did you begin summarising an entire life? Where did you begin to describe a person like Phil Coulson?

The world seemed grey. Natasha wondered if it had always been like this.

Clint picked up a pen and wrote one sentence at the top of the sheet of paper.

**_His name was Phil Coulson._ **

Wordlessly, Natasha took the pen from him and amended the sentence.

**_His name was Phillip J. Coulson._ **

And once they began, the words would not stop.

 

* * *

 

The days blurred together in a colourless haze, until one day, suddenly, it was Friday.

Natasha woke early, getting dressed in sombre silence as the rain poured down outside.

Natasha smoothed down her knee-length black skirt, buttoned up her grey blouse and pulled on her black blazer. She turned around in the mirror, examining herself from all sides. The outfit felt foreign. She did not feel like herself. She felt sick.

Clint knocked on her door quietly. She crossed her bedroom quickly and pulled it open, revealing Clint dressed in a smart black suit.

His eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had been crying. Natasha wished she could cry. As it was, she felt numb, too stunned to feel anything except the ache in her chest where Phil used to be.

"You ready?" asked Clint.

Natasha nodded, stepping out of her bedroom.

"Let's go," she said.

The drive to Washington DC took three hours. They sat in silence, the sat nav the only voice breaking the silence as they drove, occasionally giving them directions whenever they had to take a corner or join a new road.

They arrived at SHIELD Memorial Gardens in good time, Clint parking the car a short distance away. They stepped out onto the tarmac. Natasha wrapped her arms around herself, hugging herself against the cool breeze and the drizzle that fell on them in lethargic sheets.

A small crowd was already starting to form in the car park, men and women dressed in black, talking in hushed voices as they huddled together under their umbrellas.

Natasha watched them. Some people she recognised, others she did not. These were all people whose lives Phil Coulson had touched. He had affected each and every one of them, in some way or another.

It suddenly made her feel overwhelmed, to be surrounded by so many different faces, by the many different parts of Phil's life that she was not privy to. Phil had had so many different relationships with different people; it sent her head spinning to think about how many different memories of Phil must be held here in the heads of the people surrounding her.

"Clint!"

Natasha and Clint turned at the sound of a familiar voice.

Clint's face instantly broke into a small smile as the figure approached them.

"Hey sweetheart," he said, kissing Laura on the nose as he pulled her in for a hug.

Natasha gave Laura a smile before drifting away, not feeling up to conversation just yet. She floated around the outskirts of the group, nodding politely as she saw fellow agents who she knew or recognised, keeping a careful distance so as not to be sucked into any unwanted interaction.

The crowd swelled in size as more cars arrived, and soon the car park was thick with bodies as they bunched up into a dense mass of black suits.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump.

She span around, coming face to face with wide blue eyes and sandy blonde hair.

"Sorry," said Steve, wincing apologetically. "I didn't mean to startle you. How're you holding up?"

Natasha let out a long exhale, trying to calm her jittery nerves as she forced her heart rate to slow down.

"I feel like crap," she said quietly. "I can't... I can't imagine ever feeling happy again. Is that normal?"

Steve's eyes filled with sympathy as he looked at her, chewing on his lip as he nodded sadly.

"It's totally normal," he said. "When Bucky died, I couldn't even imagine living another day again. But it gets better. It's a cliché, but time's a healer."

Natasha nodded numbly, swallowing around a lump in her throat.

The crowd around them suddenly quietened down noticeably and Natasha looked around for the source of the change in volume.

She caught sight of Director Fury – for once without his long leather jacket – stood next to a Reverend. Judging by the lack of rain on their clothes, they had presumably just arrived.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Director Fury, his authoritative voice carrying through the crowd easily. "You may now make your way into SHIELD Memorial Gardens. Follow the path on the left, all the way to the bottom."

He pointed to the correct path – there were three separate paths, as far as Natasha could see – and then turned back to the Reverend, the two of them talking in hushed tones.

Natasha followed the crowd of people as they slowly made their way down the left hand path, as instructed. She looked around as they entered SHIELD Memorial Gardens.

It was beautiful.

The path was made of white pebbles, bordered on both sides by neatly trimmed grass and trees that arched and met overhead, forming a tunnel for them to walk through.

Through the trees, she saw rows of graves. The headstones were made of polished black stone, the names and details of the fallen agents written in simple white lettering. The SHIELD insignia was at the bottom of each one.

These were agents who had made the ultimate sacrifice to uphold SHIELD's values. They had given their lives to make the world a safer place. Now, Phil was going to join their ranks.

A little further ahead, the path opened up and the line of trees stopped. As Natasha stepped from the tunnel of trees out into the light, a gasp escaped her lips.

There, in the middle of the clearing, was Phil's coffin.

Rows upon rows of chairs were set out on the grass, a central aisle running down the middle, breaking the bank of chairs into two. On each seat was a name. Natasha methodically checked the chairs, eventually finding hers on the front row next to Clint.

She sat down next to him, her jaw clenched tight as she stared at Phil's coffin situated just a few feet away from them.

It was strange, she thought, to know that Phil was right  _there_ , just a couple of feet away on the other side of the wood.

The crowd gradually fell into silence as everybody found their seats, waiting respectfully for the ceremony to begin.

Natasha clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking, her breaths coming out laboured as a sob tried to force its way up her throat. Clint's hand suddenly enveloped her own, the shock of it forcing the sob past her lips as a tear rolled down her cheek.

Director Fury stood up, walking to the podium at the front of the clearing next to Phil's coffin.

"Good morning," he said, addressing the crowd. "We're gathered here today because Agent Phil Coulson gave his life in service of SHIELD. He was an extraordinary man. Some of you have known him since when he was a child. Some of you have got to know him much more recently. I'm sure something we can all agree on, is that when you let Phil Coulson into your life, he changed it."

A small ripple of applause broke out amongst the crowd. Director Fury let it die down before continuing.

"By coincidence, Phil and I talked fairly recently about our wishes for our funerals," he said. "I said I wanted something big and flashy. He said the opposite. He wanted something small, something simple, something short. He was never one for pomp and ceremony. He liked to just get the job done."

Natasha laughed softly. It was so exactly Phil.

"With that in mind, I'd now like to hand over to Reverend Robert Dyson, who's known Phil since he joined SHIELD."

Director Fury stood down from the podium, taking a seat as Reverend Dyson took his place to address the crowd of mourners.

"Good morning," said the Reverend. He had a soft, gentle voice that somehow soothed the ache in Natasha's chest minutely. "I'd like to give a reading of the poem Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep."

He cleared his throat, lowering his eyes to a sheet of paper that was clutched in his hands. As he began to speak, Natasha felt her eyes slip closed, getting lost in the poetry just as she had done all those years ago when Madame B had recited Alexander Pushkin's poems to the Red Room Academy girls.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep   
I am not there. I do not sleep.   
I am a thousand winds that blow.   
I am the diamond glints on snow.   
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.   
I am the gentle autumn rain.   
When you awaken in the morning's hush   
I am the swift uplifting rush   
Of quiet birds in circled flight.   
I am the soft stars that shine at night.   
Do not stand at my grave and cry;   
I am not there. I did not die..."

As the poem came to a close, Natasha brushed a hand over her cheeks, wiping away the tears that had slid down her face.

The Reverend stepped down from the podium, going back to his seat as Director Fury once more walked up to address the crowd.

"Thank you, Reverend," said Director Fury. "For this next part, two of the people who knew him best are going to make a speech. Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton were colleagues of Phil, but more than that, they were his friends."

Natasha rose to her feet, exchanging an anxious glance with Clint as they made their way to the podium. They stepped up onto the small platform, a little squashed together as it was really made for one.

Natasha looked up, gazing out at the faces of the mourners that were lined up in front of her in tidy rows. From this vantage point, she could recognise more people.

She recognised Laura and Maria on the front row. A couple of rows back, Steve, Tony and Bruce were sat together, Tony's face wet with unwiped tears. She recognised the British female doctor who had patched her up after Budapest – Jemma something – her eyes red as she clung to the hand of the young man sat next to her who was wearing a kilt. They both looked devastated.

"Hey everyone," said Clint, his voice wavering uncharacteristically with nerves. "So, um, when Director Fury asked us to write this speech, we didn't really know where to start. Because it feels like we could talk for hours about Phil and not even scratch the surface, you know? But Natasha found his SHIELD ID card and it said his name was Phillip J. Coulson, so we thought that was as good a place to start as any."

He let out a long, shaky breath.

"It made us wonder," he continued. "What does the J stand for? Neither of us knew. I asked around a few other people and it seems like  _no one_  knows. Maybe it was short was John or James. Or maybe it was short for something stupid like J-Dawg or... or Jarjarbinks..."

Mid-sentence, he choked on a sob, his whole frame trembling as he dissolved into tears. Natasha stood frozen for a second, momentarily stunned, before pulling herself together and putting a gentle hand on his arm.

"It got us thinking," said Natasha, taking over smoothly. "What did Phil Coulson stand for? What could that J mean? It could stand for justice. Phil had a very strong sense of right and wrong. It was why he joined SHIELD in the first place, because he wanted to fight on the side of good and make the world a more just place."

On the front row, Maria and Director Fury smiled.

"Or maybe, the J stands for joyfulness," continued Natasha. "Because he brought a lot of joy into other people's lives, just by being himself. And even though he didn't often express it in a loud, extrovert way, he himself got a lot of joy from life. He found joy in the simple things, like camping under the stars in Yosemite National Park, or staying in on a rainy Saturday afternoon and curling up on the sofa to read a book."

From her seat on the front row, Laura smiled, obviously remembering their trip to Yosemite National Park. It had been a beautiful holiday. A weak ray of sunshine broke through the clouds, and it was only then that Natasha realised it had stopped raining.

"Or maybe," she said. "Maybe it stands for jazz. Phil Coulson loved old school jazz music. In the end, it doesn't matter what the J in his name stood for, because it holds countless meanings for every person who knew him. Phil Coulson was an exceptional man. He was willing to believe in people when no one else did, even when that person did not believe in themselves."

Her eyes fell on Steve, his head bowed, his blue eyes glistening with tears.

"Anyone who knew Phil knows that he was a massive Captain America fan," she said, smiling as Steve looked up in surprise. "He was overjoyed when Steve was found alive, and super-excited to actually meet him during his final mission. I have no doubt he'd be deeply honoured to know that Steve is here today."

Tony elbowed Steve good-naturedly, giving him a weak smile when Steve did not push him away.

"Phil Coulson had a great deal of respect for everybody," said Natasha. "I never heard him say a bad word against anyone. He saw all of us as heroes, not because of our powers or abilities, but in the purest sense of the word: as people who do good in the world, in whatever form that may take. He gave his life to save others, to save all of us. To honour his sacrifice, we must live the best lives that we possibly can. We must all strive to be the best people we can be; the people Phil Coulson believed we could be."

She stepped down from the podium, pulling Clint gently with her.

The audience sat in stunned silence for a moment, before erupting into a spontaneous, heartfelt round of applause.

Natasha smiled shyly.

Finally, the rain had stopped.

 

* * *

 

After the funeral, Natasha went to stay with the Bartons at the farmhouse.

Director Fury had told her that SHIELD agents would be taking away all of Phil's belongings during the funeral, and Natasha was not ready to go back to the empty flat.

Clint and Laura had beamed when she had asked if she could stay with them, pulling her into a hug between them and telling her that she was welcome to stay for as long as she liked.

The drive back to the farmhouse was quiet, but it was a peaceful silence rather than one fraught with tension.

Natasha watched as the roads changed from the modern highways running through cities, to long country roads, and eventually dusty dirt tracks.

By the time they arrived home, it was starting to get dark.

The sunset cast warm orange light across the farmhouse and the meadow, long shadows giving the place an almost cinematic feel.

Natasha got out of the car and stood still for a moment, looking out over the meadow. She had lived here for an entire year, when she had first come to the US. It had been her home then, and it still felt like home now.

She had spent hours every day sitting out in the meadow, reading, walking, laughing and crying as she gradually adjusted to free life.

Back then, she had not even heard the name  _Phil Coulson_.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

Laura touched her arm, jerking her out of her thoughts. The three of them walked up to the house, the sound of children laughing and playing audible from inside.

"I hope they haven't driven the babysitter insane," joked Clint.

He pushed open the door, yelling to announce their arrival. His shout was immediately followed by two squeals and the sound of running feet.

"Daddy!"

Cooper charged out of the living room into the hallway, a big grin on his face. Lila emerged right behind him, her long hair flapping behind her as she skipped towards the adults.

"Auntie Nat!"

Natasha laughed softly as the children ignored their parents and made a beeline for her instead. Lila jumped up into her arms and Cooper wrapped his arms around her waist tightly as he snuggled into her side.

"We've not seen you for ages, Auntie Nat!" chirped Lila, planting a wet kiss on her cheek.

"It's been about 3 weeks, baby," smiled Natasha, giving Lila a gentle kiss on the forehead as she wrapped her free arm around Cooper.

It had only been 3 weeks or so, but she felt as though they had both grown perhaps a millimetre in that time. They were growing up fast. Cooper was 6 years old and Lila was 3 years old already. She remembered when Cooper had been a toddler and Lila had been nothing more than a twinkle in her parents' eyes.

Cooper pulled back to look at her, his expression becoming serious as he did so.

"Why do you look sad, Auntie Nat?" he asked.

Natasha exchanged a glance with Laura and Clint, unsure of whether they had told the children what had happened to Phil. Clint nodded discreetly, signalling that she could answer Cooper's question.

"Because we had to say goodbye to Uncle Phil today," she said softly, putting Lila back down on her feet, next to her brother. "Do you remember Uncle Phil?"

Cooper and Lila both nodded.

"You won't see Uncle Phil again?" asked Cooper.

Natasha bit her lip as she stroked the little boy's hair, his big blue eyes looking up at her curiously.

"No, sweetie," she said.

"Why not?" asked Lila, cocking her head to the side and frowning in a way that reminded her of Elena.

Natasha looked up at Clint and Laura, unsure of how to continue.

"Because Uncle Phil's gone to Heaven," said Laura softly. "He's an angel now."

Cooper's eyes widened, although Lila still looked confused.

He grabbed hold of his sister's hand and pulled her away, running deeper into the house. Natasha could hear them whispering together in the living room.

"I'm going to go to bed," said Natasha, rubbing her eyes as the events of the day suddenly caught up with her, leaving her numb and fatigued.

Clint and Laura nodded with understanding.

She sloped up the stairs, entering the guest bedroom and getting changed into a spare set of pyjamas that lived in the wardrobe.

She lay on her side for a long while, the curtains open so that she could watch the sky as it went from orange to red to blue and, finally, to black.

Her eyes fluttered closed, quickly falling into a deep sleep.

She did not wake when Cooper and Lila crept into her room, placing gentle hands on her head. They watched her for a few minutes, sad expressions on their round faces, before creeping back out.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Natasha woke slowly.

The warmth of the morning sun caressed her eyelids, the faint sound of the breeze blowing in the meadow a soothing noise, along with the sound of soft breathing at the foot of her bed.

_Wait a minute..._

She sat bolt upright, her heart hammering wildly as she stared at the foot of her bed, two pairs of eyes staring back at her: one pair blue, the other brown.

Cooper's face broke into a grin when he saw Natasha was awake, Lila smiling at her with an impish expression a second later.

"Good morning, Auntie Nat," they chorused.

Natasha let out a long exhale, flopping back against her pillows as all the tension melted out of her.

"Cooper, Lila," she sighed, her voice still rough with sleep. "What're you doing in here?"

The children emerged from behind the board at the foot of the bed, allowing Natasha to see them from the neck down for the first time.

She gasped.

In their arms were bouquets of beautiful wild flowers, obviously hand-picked from the meadow. Reds, yellows, oranges and purples bloomed amongst the green shoots; a riot of colour.

"You... You... Wow," she managed, a lump forming in her throat.

"When we feel sad or scared, Mommy and Daddy pick flowers for us and let us sleep in their bed," explained Cooper. "Then we feel better. Me and Lila want you to feel better too."

Natasha smiled, brushing away a tear that ran down her cheek as she did so.

"Thanks, guys," she said. "That's really thoughtful of you."

She pulled back her covers, indicating that they were welcome to climb into bed with her, if they wished. They squealed happily, immediately jumping up onto the bed and snuggling up next to her, Cooper on her right side, Lila on her left.

She leaned back against the pillows, wrapping her arms around them and dropping gentle kisses on the tops of their heads. The flowers were scattered all over the bed, making Natasha feel as though they were outside in the meadow.

Lila slipped her small hand into Natasha's, leaning against her and tilting her head back so that she could look up at her.

"Maybe Uncle Phil will come back," she said.

Natasha smiled down at her weakly.

"You think?" she said.

Lila nodded confidently.

"Once, Purple Teddy's head came off," she said, her eyes widening with horror at the memory. "I was sad and I cried, but in the morning, his head was back on! Maybe the same thing will happen to Uncle Phil!"

She beamed up at Natasha.

Natasha remembered the day when Purple Teddy's head had come off. Lila had been distraught, and that night, whilst the children were sleeping, Natasha had watched Laura painstakingly sew the teddy's head back on so that it was exactly the way it had been before.

Laura had placed Purple Teddy at his usual place at the kitchen table, and Lila had cried with happiness when she saw him at breakfast the next morning.

Laura had saved Purple Teddy, brought him back from the dead.

Natasha wished, more than anything, that someone could do the same to Phil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRIEF: Everyone's experience of grief is different, and there's no right or wrong way to cope with the death of a loved one. Maybe you could see your own reaction to death reflected in Natasha's thoughts and feelings this chapter, maybe not. I based her feelings on what I personally have felt following the death of a friend, but if you've experienced grief differently, that's totally legit too. We're all different, and grief differs depending on the person feeling it, the person you've lost and the circumstances. One thing is a constant though: things *do* eventually get better, so if you're suffering now, hang in there, and in the meantime, remember that it's OK to be sad <3
> 
> BONUS CHAPTER ART: As well as the usual art which you can find at the beginning of the chapter, I created another piece of artwork to accompany this chapter, which you can view [ here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/160779003076/phil-coulson-do-not-stand-at-my-grave-and-weep). It features Phil, _that_ poem and the night sky. Feel free to reblog, if you wish :)
> 
> 1 YEAR ON AO3: This is unrelated to Fearless, so feel free to skip this point haha. I am celebrating 1 year on AO3!! I joined on 20th May 2016 and dove into writing to escape the pain of a friend's body being found and a relationship break-up. In the last year, I've written almost 300,000 words, written 6 stories (including two long ones which I'm most proud of: [Vengeance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7285612/chapters/16544104) and [Fearless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8346310/chapters/19120636)) and had the honour of entertaining over 7,000 readers. Thank you for your eyeballs and comments and kudos, you've made the last year so awesome and rewarding! <3
> 
> J IS FOR...: What do you think the J stands for in Phil's name?
> 
> JEMMA SIMMONS AND LEO FITZ: Any Agents Of SHIELD fans reading this? I hope you enjoyed Fitzsimmons' cameo!
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter jumps forward one year and will be titled Washington DC because that's where it takes place and I couldn't think of anything more imaginative to call it. It's going to set up Fearless' final (and most epic) storyarc, so hold on to your hats...


	30. Washington DC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, but the next chapter’s going to be immense, so I hope that’s OK…
> 
> As always, [chapter art](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/161130586016/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter) <3

2013 – Aged 29

 

* * *

 

Natasha moved to Washington DC.

She lived by herself, although she would often meet up with Maria and Steve in the evenings. By coincidence, Steve moved there shortly after she did, and it turned out that Washington DC was where Maria was actually from originally.

Natasha liked it. She could spend time alone whenever she needed to, but she had the option of socialising with friends too. It was nice.

Part of her thought that she had moved in order to give herself a fresh start, but a more honest part of her knew that she moved to be closer to Phil.

She visited his grave at SHIELD Memorial Gardens every month.

She would sit with him and tell him about what was happening in her life and in the world more generally. She would bring him flowers – white roses, his favourite – and make sure that his grave was kept neat and tidy, just as he would have liked it.

Every time she went, the weight on her chest was a little lighter. She still missed him, of course, but she was gradually becoming more accustomed to this post-Phil world. Every day, it was easier to cope. Every day, a little more brightness and colour returned to the world.

It felt strange, to know that his story was over.

It did not feel over.

Sometimes, she would be struck by a prickling sense of familiarity. She might be sitting on the bus, driving past a crowd of people and suddenly, she would do a double-take, certain that she had seen him.

She could not explain it; it just  _felt_ as if he were there sometimes, close by.

One time, she had been visiting his grave at SHIELD Memorial Gardens as usual, when she was struck by a distinct sense of being watched.

She had looked up and seen a man in a dark suit standing far away, by the gates. He was too far away to see his face clearly – and he was wearing sunglasses, which did not help – but she had been  _certain_ that it was Phil.

He had Phil's body shape, his posture, his calm way of holding himself. And he had been watching her intently, as if he knew her and was keeping an eye on her.

She had got up and ran to where she had seen the man, but by the time she got there, emerging from the trees and blinking in the light, he was gone.

She had been struck by a sense of intense disappointment.

Her hopes had been raised, only to be dashed by the cold harshness of reality.

She thought she had seen someone. She had been so sure. It had looked just like him, but it could not have been.

It must have been a trick of the mind.

Grief was a strange thing.

 

* * *

 

One Friday evening, Steve and Maria came around to Natasha's flat for dinner and drinks.

It had become something of a habit. Every Friday, if they were all available, they would go around to one of their houses and spend the evening unwinding together after a long week of working at SHIELD.

They would cook together, eat together, and then sit around either in the living room or outside if the weather permitted, sipping drinks and talking about whatever came to mind.

On this particular evening, it was Natasha's flat that they had converged on, and they had cooked sweet and sour chicken with rice.

After polishing off the meal – Steve devoured a double portion; his serum-enhanced appetite was truly something to behold – they dumped their plates in the dishwasher and set about making cocktails.

Neither Natasha nor Maria were especially 'girly' girls, but one stereotypically girly thing that they did enjoy was a good, fruity cocktail. Steve was equally enamoured with the sweet drinks, although he had sworn them to secrecy, no matter how much they insisted that in 2013 it was perfectly acceptable for a man to enjoy things that were traditionally considered feminine.

They made strawberry daiquiris, blending and sieving the strawberries before adding the resulting puree to the blender, along with ice, lime juice and rum. Maria bounced happily on her heels as Natasha blitzed the ingredients, Steve watching with fascination as the blender did its job.

After pouring out the drinks, they headed out to Natasha's balcony, flopping down on the three deck chairs to watch the sunset whilst sipping their drinks.

Natasha settled down happily as Steve and Maria chuckled and reminisced about a mission they had gone on together the previous month. From what Natasha could gather, the villain of the piece had turned out to be nobody more than a lonely middle-aged hacker, who had poked at SHIELD's firewall simply in an attempt to get their attention.

When Steve and Maria had turned up on his doorstep, he had panicked, told them foolishly that he had wired the house with explosives, and they proceeded to squeal like a newborn piglet when Steve had grabbed him by the waist, slung him over his shoulder and sprinted away from the house as fast as his serum-enhanced legs would carry him – around 30mph.

After throwing up on Steve's shoes, he had admitted the whole thing about the explosives was a lie, and said that he had only reason he had tried to hack SHIELD was because he wanted some attention and company.

Taking pity on him, Steve and Maria had spent the evening with him once they had finished work, playing board games with him until the early hours after making him promise to stay away from SHIELD's firewalls in the future.

"Sounds like the poor guy just needs some friends," said Natasha. "Or a girlfriend."

"Or a boyfriend," winked Maria.

Natasha smiled.

"Or a boyfriend," she agreed, before her smile took on a more mischievous quality. "Speaking of boyfriends, how's  _Brock_?"

Maria burst into laughter, almost choking on her strawberry daiquiri as she did so.

"Oh, he's  _good_ ," she said, her tone light and teasing.

Steve's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"I didn't know you guys were in a relationship," he said.

Maria sniggered, shooting a wink towards Natasha before turning to Steve.

"We're not," she said.

Steve's brow crumpled with confusion.

"But Natasha just said..." he said, trailing off as he looked between the two women uncertainly.

"Aww, you're so cute," teased Maria, pinching his cheek lightly. "It's 2013. I guess sexual morals have changed a bit from your time. People often have sex before marriage now. Even sex outside of a relationship."

Steve blushed deeply, his cheeks almost matching the colour of the strawberry daiquiris that were sat on the table between them.

His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, the tips of his ears glowing red as he fumbled for the right words.

"So... So you and Brock, um, fondue?" he asked.

"Isn't fondue just melted cheese?" muttered Natasha, confused.

Steve buried his face in his hands, mortified.

Maria giggled, swirling her straw through her drink and taking a slurp before deciding to put Steve out of his misery.

"Brock and I are friends with benefits, fuck buddies, whatever you want to call it," she said. "We have sex. No romance, no strings attached. It's just for fun."

Steve stared at her incredulously for a couple of moments, his mouth hanging open with shock, before realising that his reaction was possibly in what could be considered 'rude' territory and snapping his mouth shut, averting his gaze.

"That's... strange," he said weakly.

Maria snorted.

"Are you telling me Captain America's a virgin?" she joked, her eyes twinkling.

Steve blushed, if it were possible, even harder than before, and Maria's smile slid off her face as she gaped at him in shock.

"Oh my  _God_ ," she said. "For  _real_? Wait, wait. How far have you gone? Tell me."

She leaned forwards on her elbows, staring rapturously at Steve as she gave him her full attention, her drink forgotten.

Steve lowered his head nervously, his gaze flicking awkwardly between the two women.

"I've kissed two women," he said, squirming in his seat. "But that was before I went into the ice."

Maria let out a strangled sound as she flapped her hands excitedly.

"Kissing?" she exclaimed. "The furthest you've gone is  _kissing_? Dude. That's amazing. Nat and I are gonna set you up on some dates."

Steve fiddled with his shirt sleeves uncomfortably, firmly avoiding eye contact with either of them as he ducked his head down.

Natasha frowned as she noticed his uncomfortable expression and tense posture.

"I don't think it's that amazing," she said, shrugging casually. "I've never had sex either. Being a virgin isn't a big deal."

Steve looked up at her gratefully, his expression instantly clearing and his posture becoming more confident and relaxed.

Maria's eyes widened even further.

"Seriously?" she asked. "How come you’ve never _fondued_ , as Steve so charmingly puts it?"

Natasha ran a finger through the condensation on her glass.

"It's just not my cup of tea," she said honestly.

Maria fell into silence, sipping at her drink thoughtfully.

"Fair enough," she said eventually. "Sorry if I offended either of you."

Natasha and Steve smiled, the atmosphere instantly becoming lighter in the wake of Maria's apology.

"It's fine," said Natasha. "So, what's Brock doing now?"

Maria shrugged, draining her drink and sighing.

"I'm not sure," she said. "Brock and Jack have gone to Russia with a member of the World Security Council – Alexander Pierce, I think. Brock's not said what it's about, so I guess it's some kind of secret mission."

Natasha nodded. She understood. Missions were often kept secret from agents who did not need to know about them. It was part of Director Fury's strategy of damage limitation; if no one  _knew_ all the secrets, no one could  _spill_ all the secrets.

"Do you ever want to go back home to Russia?" said Steve, after a pause.

Natasha thought about it, before smiling and shaking her head.

"Russia isn't my home," she said simply. "My home is here."

 

* * *

 

The next day, Natasha received an unexpected visitor.

Looking back, she would think of this moment as the beginning of the end; the moment when the first little piece of the jigsaw puzzle that was her life fell into place, the first piece of a larger whole that would bring everything together.

At that moment, though, she knew none of that, and so when she opened her front door to a glare and a swathe of black leather, the only thing that came out of her mouth was a surprised sounding "oh".

Director Fury swept past her, entering her flat without invitation and heading to the kitchen.

Natasha jogged after him, in equal parts alarmed and annoyed by his sudden entrance.

They entered the kitchen, where Director Fury turned around and fixed her with a fierce glare, folding his arms as he stared at her angrily.

After a few seconds of intense staring, during which the tension in the room reached almost palpable levels, Natasha snapped.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

"I was hoping you could tell me," retorted Director Fury immediately.

Natasha spread her arms wide, shaking her head with frustration and confusion. She had no idea why Director Fury was here. Her performance at work, as always, was exemplary, and she could not think of anything she had done outside of work that warranted a visit from the head of SHIELD himself.

"I've got no idea what you're talking about," she said, her tone clipped as she tried to contain her anger.

Director Fury was silent for a good few minutes, staring at her hard as he mentally weighed up what to say to her. Natasha stood still under his scrutiny, her gaze cool and hard as she resisted the urge to squirm.

Finally, Director Fury sighed, the sharp edge of his anger seemingly melting away as he exhaled.

"Agent Coulson put a flag in SHIELD's systems," he began, watching her closely for her reaction. "The flag was designed to activate at the mention of two key phrases: 'winter soldier' or 'metal arm'."

Natasha gasped, her heart rate kicking up a notch at the mention of the Winter Soldier.

"Phil never told me about these flags," continued Director Fury. "I only found out about them this morning, when the flag was activated and an alert was emailed to Agent Coulson. All of his emails have been re-directed to me since his death."

Natasha licked her lips nervously, her mind scrambling for the possibilities about what could have been picked up about the Winter Soldier. It had been so long since she had last encountered him that she had almost forgotten about him.

Now, though, the memories returned at full force.

She remembered the cold blue gaze of his eyes and shivered.

"The flag was set to be visible to you and Phil only," said Director Fury, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "I had to log in as Phil to view the exact message that had been picked up. As the only other person named on this flag, I'm going to ask you only once:  _what is the Winter Soldier?_ "

Natasha swallowed, her hands clenching and unclenching nervously by her sides.

"He's a Soviet assassin," she said. "I encountered him once at the Red Room Academy and again years later, on the Odessa mission transporting the nuclear engineer. He's the one who shot at us."

Director Fury nodded, tucking the information into the depths of his mind whilst keeping his frown firmly in place.

"Why was the flag only visible to you and Agent Coulson?" he said. "Why the secrecy?"

Natasha closed her eyes, breathing deeply before replying.

Thinking about Phil still hurt, talking about him even more so.

"Phil and I had a theory about the Winter Soldier," she said. "We wanted to be the first to know if anything happened."

Director Fury took a step towards her, his expression sharp with concentration.

"What was your theory?" he asked.

Natasha's gaze slid from his face as she considered how to answer him.

She remembered the Winter Soldier. There was definitely something strange about his memory and his behaviour.

In Madame B's bedroom at the Red Room Academy, he had gone from cold, merciless monster to shivering wreck almost like the flip of a switch. He had been ready to rape her, almost on top of her, when the coldness had bled out of his eyes, replaced by a terrified expression of horror.

And then there had been Odessa. He had had no recollection of her. He had looked right at her and seen a stranger, not the slightest glimmer of recognition showing on his face.

"It's private," she said quietly.

Her heart was hammering inside her chest. She did not want to tell Director Fury about what the Winter Soldier had almost done to her in Madame B's bedroom. It was a memory she desperately wanted to forget. To have to relive it again would be torture.

Director Fury was silent for a long while, appraising her intently, his eyes roving over her face, seeking out micro expressions and little tells.

Eventually, he nodded, thankfully deciding not to press the subject.

"OK," he said.

Natasha let out a long breath she had not even realised she was holding.

"What was the flag?" she asked. "What did the message say?"

She knew that she could easily check this information herself by simply looking at her emails, but she was curious to know now.

"It said:  _Regarding: Winter Soldier. Status: Collected._ " said Director Fury. "The message was sent using an old SHIELD communications channel. That particular channel isn't used or monitored by anyone anymore. It's only thanks to Phil's flag that we noticed it at all."

Natasha frowned.

"What does that mean?" she asked, confused. "Why would someone send a cryptic message over a defunct channel?"

Director Fury visibly bristled at the question, his one visible eye narrowing as he glared at her suspiciously.

"I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on that," he said coolly.

Natasha's jaw dropped, her initial shock quickly giving way to anger as she realised why Director Fury had been treating her with such hostility and suspicion since arriving at her flat.

"You think that I'm  _involved_ in this?" she demanded, rage flaring in her chest when Director Fury simply shrugged in response. "I've got no idea what the message means. I don't know why an old SHIELD comms channel was used to relay it.  _I'm not involved._ How could you think that of me? I've been a loyal SHIELD agent for years. Haven't I proved I can be trusted?"

Director Fury's face was emotionless during her tirade, his expression and stance not moving a muscle as she ranted.

"I don't trust anyone," he said bluntly.

Natasha swallowed back a retort, forcing herself not to take it personally.

But it  _felt_ personal. It reminded her of the prejudice and discrimination she had faced in her early days at SHIELD, when everyone had thought she was a KGB double agent.

She pushed back the bitterness and concentrated on the facts.

"Where was the message sent from and to?" she asked.

"We can't tell," said Director Fury. "The flag only brought up the message and the channel used. When I tuned in to that channel later, it was silent."

Natasha huffed with frustration, in equal parts annoyed, confused and unsettled by the developments.

"Someone within SHIELD sent that message," said Director Fury. "Only a SHIELD agent would know about those defunct channels."

"Something strange is going on," murmured Natasha.

Director Fury nodded.

"Yeah, and I intend to find out what," he said.

It was a promise as much as it was a statement.

He gave her one last searching glance, before turning on his heel and walking out of her flat, the door slamming shut behind him.

Natasha stood motionless in the echoing silence.

She could feel her heart beating wildly inside her chest.

Something big was on the horizon; she just did not know what.

_Regarding: Winter Soldier. Status: Collected._

What could it mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLOTLINES: Ahoy, look at the way the plotlines are starting to converge! We're in the final straits now. Every single hanging plotline is going to get drawn together and resolved in these final five chapters. I hope you're vaguely excited because I am _screaming_ with excitement!
> 
> THE FLAGS: Phil set up the flags at the end of chapter 24 (Odessa). Did you notice? Well done if you did!
> 
> FONDUE: *giggles* I could not resist putting in the line about fondue. Extra points to you if you understood the reference ;)
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "The Winter Soldier"...
> 
> CHARACTER CONCEPT ART: I made another character concept thingy on my Tumblr, this time for James! You can view it [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/160880213186/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-character).
> 
> THANK YOU: If you're reading this, that means you've read an entire _30 CHAPTERS_ of this story! That's a huge commitment on your part, so I want to say thank you, thank you, thank you!  <3 I adore writing in and of itself, but the fact there are readers out there who enjoy reading my stuff too makes it even more enjoyable and generally just blows my mind. Thank you especially to those of you who take the time to leave comments and kudos; it's always wonderful to receive feedback and I appreciate it immensely <3


	31. The Winter Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get yourselves in the mood by listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jpnBs0DkXg) ;)
> 
> As always, [chapter art](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/161788853441/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter) <3

2014 – Aged 30

 

* * *

 

A couple of weeks after Director Fury's unexpected visit to her flat, Natasha received an email from him, asking her to report to his office immediately.

She drove the short distance to the Triskelion and tapped her foot nervously as she stood in the lift up to his office.

Absent-mindedly, she watched the Washington DC skyline as she slowly rose up the glass side of the building. The Potomac River shimmered in the sun.

By the time she arrived at Director Fury's floor and made her way to stand outside his office door, a small ball of anxiety had settled in her stomach. Director Fury's suspicions about her somehow being involved in the intercepted message about the Winter Soldier still stung.

She wondered, with a feeling of trepidation, if this was what this was all about.

Could that be why he had called her to his office? Did he seriously think that she was involved with that message? Was he about to sack her or, perhaps, send her away for questioning?

She swallowed. Ruminating about the possibilities was pointless. She raised her fist and knocked on his door.

"Come in!"

She stepped inside, walking quickly to his desk and shaking his hand, a small wave of relief washing over her when she saw that he did not look particularly suspicious or angry.

"Good morning, Director Fury," she said politely.

"Good morning, Agent Romanoff," he replied, inclining his head towards her respectfully.

They both sat down, the silence between them thankfully not nearly as strained as Natasha had feared.

"I have a mission for you," said Director Fury. "Some SHIELD agents have been kidnapped by Algerian pirates off the coast of India."

Natasha's eyebrows shot upwards. She was not sure if SHIELD had the right to be in Indian waters. They were allowed to travel anywhere in the world if there was an emergency, of course, or if they were invited, but other than that, permission had to be given by the local government, or by someone high up in SHIELD.

She was not aware of any active operations going on in India. She wondered what a SHIELD ship was doing there.

"The ship is called the Lemurian Star," continued Director Fury. "I'm going to send in STRIKE Team Delta."

Natasha sat upright, immediately brushing aside her musings about what SHIELD was doing in that part of the world. It did not matter. She was a proud member of STRIKE Team Delta, had been ever since the Abidjan Operation. Whatever the mission was, that had to be her top priority; she could worry about the legality of the ship's whereabouts later.

"So I'm going to be rescuing the hostages?" she said.

Director Fury glanced furtively around the room. It was a simple flick of his eyes, too subtle for most people to pick up on. Natasha was not most people.

"No," he said. "The other members of STRIKE Team Delta will do that. I need you to download all the data stored on the ship's computers."

He slid a silver USB stick across the table towards her. Natasha picked it up curiously, turning it over in her hands.

"Do  _not_ tell any of the others about this mission, not even Captain Rogers," he said, his expression shifting to one of intense seriousness. "This is your mission and your mission alone, understand? I need you to keep it a secret."

Natasha sat still for a moment. She was bursting with curiosity, a flurry of questions on the tip of her tongue: why the secrecy, why did he need her to download the data at all, what was the bigger picture?

After a few seconds of internal debate, however, she sighed. If Director Fury thought she needed to know, he would have told her. Asking him to divulge the information when he had not offered it in the first place was pointless.

She squared her shoulders. If he needed the information on that ship, then she would get it for him. She trusted him and his judgement.

"Yes, sir," she said. "When are we leaving?"

Director Fury smiled, apparently pleased by her lack of resistance or questions.

"ASAP," he said. "Go pick up Captain Rogers and meet the rest of STRIKE Team Delta at the Quinjet port at the base of the Triskelion. Captain Rogers is going to take lead on the mission, with Agent Rumlow providing strategic advice. Stick to their instructions so that they don't get suspicious, but most importantly get me the data on that ship."

Natasha nodded, standing up and tucking the USB stick into a special pocket that she had sewn into her bra.

"Yes, sir," she said, shaking his hand once more before quickly leaving the office.

She took the lift back down to the basement level where her car was parked, barely sparing a glance at the panoramic views of Washington DC that the lift provided.

As soon as the lift doors opened, she slipped through the gap, jogging to the car and sliding in, buckling herself in and starting the engine in a matter of seconds.

She sped out of the underground car park, just nudging the speed limit as she crossed the bridge that crossed the Potomac River, connecting the Triskelion to the rest of Washington DC.

She knew where to find Steve. He was unerringly predictable in his routine. Every morning at this time, he went for a run around the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial.

She had tried to tell him to change his routine – it was dangerous to fall into a pattern, hugely increasing the risk of falling victim to a targeted attack – but Steve had been adamant that he should not have to change his routine to cater to the threat posed by dangerous individuals.

To change his ways would be to let fear win, he said. She supposed he had a point.

She quickly made her way through the city streets, the roads mercifully free of traffic on this particular morning.

Just as that thought crossed her mind, she hit a red light. Grumbling, she pulled out her phone, tapping out a quick text to Steve and pressing send.

**To: Steve Rogers**

From: Natasha Romanoff

08:34am

_Mission alert. Extraction imminent. Meet at the curb. :)_

She grinned. Steve had been inordinately excited when he had first discovered emojis, and she tried to include little smiley faces in all her texts to him, simply because she knew how much he enjoyed them.

She had got to see more of Steve recently. As well as them both moving to Washington DC, they had also been put in the same STRIKE unit. A few months ago, the STRIKE teams had undergone a reshuffle.

Natasha, Brock and Jack had stayed in STRIKE Team Delta, but Maria and Clint had both left – Maria to focus on her now more senior role in SHIELD, Clint moving to STRIKE Team Charlie. In their place, a few more agents had joined including, to Natasha's delight, Steve.

The traffic light finally turned to green, allowing her to make her way the final few streets to where she knew Steve would soon be finishing his run. She pulled up to the curb, rolling down the window to see him chatting to a young black man who she had not seen before.

"Hey, fellas," she called, grinning when they both looked over. "Do either one of you know where the Smithsonian is? I'm here to pick up a fossil."

She often teased Steve about his age, something that she felt she had the right to do because even though he was chronologically older, she was actually older in terms of biological age.

Steve rolled his eyes at the old joke, a small smile pulling at his lips as he climbed into the car.

"That's hilarious," he muttered, his tone of voice suggesting that he found her humour to be anything but.

The young black man bent down so that he could see into the car, his friendly eyes twinkling when they fell on Natasha.

"How you doing?" he said, his tone light and teasing.

Natasha smiled at him. His attempts at flirting did not seem to be serious, his ready smile and warm eyes telling her instinctively that this man was decent.

"Hey," she said.

Steve buckled himself in, before turning back to his friend outside the car.

"I can't run everywhere," he said.

The man on the pavement chuckled, straightening up as he gave them a farewell wave.

"No, you can't," he said.

Giving the man a parting smile, Natasha stepped on the accelerator, taking them back in the direction of the Triskelion.

"So, who was that?" she asked.

"His name's Sam Wilson," said Steve, smiling. "I just met him on the run. He's ex-military. Seems nice."

Natasha reached over to ruffle his hair good-naturedly, making exaggerated cooing noises.

"Aww, it's so sweet that you're making friends," she teased. "Maybe we should invite him to Friday night cocktails."

Steve laughed, shaking his head forcefully.

"Nat, no!" he said. "If I bump into him again, I'll invite him out for a beer or to go watch baseball or something. No cocktail umbrellas or pink drinks."

Natasha sighed exasperatedly. No matter how often she told him that it was perfectly OK for men to drink 'girly drinks', he still clung on to the old notions of gender norms. It was to be expected, given the era he was raised in, but it still frustrated her.

"Well, maybe he can help you find a girlfriend," she said, deciding not to press the matter about gender norms and so-called pink drinks.

Steve smiled coyly, his head ducked down in a way that should be far too adorable for a grown man to reasonably pull off.

"Maybe," he said, sounding a little distant.

Ever since Steve's reveal that he was a virgin a few weeks before, and his subsequent admission that he might just be yearning for romance, she and Maria had been trying to hook him up with eligible women from work. For some reason, he had always rejected their suggestions, but she and Maria were still intent on finding him the perfect match.

"I'm glad you made a friend, Steve," she said softly.

Steve turned to her in surprise, a touched expression spreading over his face as he looked at her.

Steve had struggled to make friends outside of work since waking up from the ice. He was naturally shy, and the fact he was something of a celebrity did nothing to calm his nerves. Natasha was actually quite relieved that he had managed to make friends with a normal man on the street. 

"Thanks, Nat," he replied.

The rest of the ride took place in a comfortable silence.

By the time they arrived at the Triskelion and made their way to the Quinjet, the rest of STRIKE Team Delta was already there and waiting for them.

"Let's get moving!" said Brock, getting straight to the point as always.

Steve blushed as he buckled up in the back of the plane. Natasha did up her own buckle and cocked her head to the side, confused. She leaned forward so that only Steve could hear her.

"What's up?" she said. "You OK?"

Steve nodded, still resolutely avoiding eye contact with Brock.

"I'm fine," he whispered. "I just can't believe... You know... Him and Maria.  _Fondue_."

Natasha let out a snort of laughter before she could stop herself.

She smirked as Brock glanced over at them, shaking her head to indicate that it was nothing for him to worry about.

She glanced back at Steve, waggling her eyebrows enthusiastically, before they both dissolved into a fit of stifled laughter.

"What's going on back there?" snapped Jack, brusque as ever.

Natasha smothered the last of her giggles and sighed.

It was going to be a long flight.

 

* * *

 

With the Quinjet flying at maximum speed, it did not take that long at all to reach the Indian Ocean.

As they neared the ship's location, Brock called everyone together and brought up some files on the touchscreen computer at the back of the Quinjet.

They crowded around the screen, which presently showed a photograph of the hijacked ship and blueprints showing its layout.

"Our target is a mobile satellite launch platform, the Lemurian Star," said Brock. "They were sending up their last payload when pirates took them."

"Have they made any demands?" asked Steve.

"Billion and a half," said Brock.

Natasha let out a long, low whistle.

_A billion and a half dollars?!_

"Why so steep?" said Steve incredulously.

Brock paused for a fraction of a second before replying, his stance becoming ever so slightly defensive.

"Because it's SHIELD's," he said.

Steve let out an irritated sigh.

"So it's not off-course," he muttered. "It's trespassing."

Natasha laid a gentle hand on Steve's arm to calm his agitation.

"I'm sure they have a good reason," she said, deliberately keeping her voice calm and neutral.

"You know, I'm getting a little tired of being Fury's janitor," said Steve, his frustration evident from the frown creasing his forehead.

"Relax," said Natasha. "It's not that complicated."

Steve gritted his teeth and turned back to Brock.

"How many pirates?" he asked.

"Twenty-five," said Brock, bringing up a new photograph on the screen, this one showing a surly-looking man in his late-twenties or early-thirties. "Top mercs led by this guy: Georges Batroc. Ex-DGSE, Action Division. He's at the top of Interpol's Red Notice. Before the French demobilised him, he had 36 kill missions. This guy's got a rep for maximum casualties."

"Hostages?" asked Steve.

"Mostly techs," said Brock, nodding. "One officer: Jasper Sitwell. They're in the galley."

Natasha raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Jasper Sitwell's been kidnapped  _again_?" she said. "What is it with him and getting kidnapped? We had to save his ass in the Abidjan Operation too."

Brock shot her a grin and snorted with amusement.

"What's Sitwell doing on a launch ship?" said Steve, frowning before pushing the thought away with a wave of his hand. "Alright, I'm going to sweep the deck and find Batroc. Nat, you kill the engines and wait for instructions. Rumlow, you sweep aft, find the hostages, get them to the life-pods, get them out. Let's move."

Brock nodded immediately, reaching for a parachute as he addressed the rest of STRIKE Team Delta.

"STRIKE, you heard the Cap," he said sharply. "Gear up."

Quiet fell over the occupants of the plane as they gathered together what they would need to complete the mission, chiefly various weapons, comms equipment and parachutes to actually get them down on the ship.

"Secure channel seven," ordered Steve, affixing a voice-activated microphone to his throat.

Natasha flicked on a button on the computer in front of her, securing the channel so that the pirates would not be able to listen in to their frequency.

"Seven secure," she confirmed, before turning to her attention towards Steve, a small smirk on her lips. "Did you do anything fun on Saturday night?"

The previous weekend, Natasha and Maria had urged him to go to a new bar that had opened recently, telling him it would be a good chance to get out there and make a friend or two, maybe even find a special lady.

Steve gave her an unamused stare, indicating he knew exactly what she was thinking as he diligently sidestepped the question.

"Well, all the guys from my barbershop quartet are dead, so, no, not really," he said, firmly avoiding eye contact.

A red light flashed once, indicating that the ramp at the back of the Quinjet was about to lower. Natasha stepped smoothly off the ramp.

"We're coming up on the drop zone, Cap," said the pilot.

"You know, if you ask Kristen out from Statistics, she'd probably say yes," said Natasha, giving Steve a teasing smile as he blushed.

"That's why I don't ask," said Steve, securing his shield on his back and walking down the ramp of the Quinjet.

"Too shy or too scared?" said Natasha, having to raise her voice to be heard over the roar of the wind outside.

"Too busy!" shouted Steve.

He glanced over his shoulder to give her a grin before jumping out of the Quinjet.

Natasha chuckled, simultaneously shocked and amused that Steve had literally thrown himself out of a plane in order to escape her probing about his love life. She would have to tell Maria about it on Friday.

Jack hurried over to Natasha's side to peer out of the back of the Quinjet.

"Was he wearing a parachute?" he asked, aghast.

Brock laughed and he grinned, a mixture of surprise and respect on his face.

"No," he said. "No, he wasn't."

They pulled on their parachutes, checking one another's equipment to ensure that they were all safely secure in their harnesses. Brock gave her a pat on the shoulder after checking that Natasha's parachute was done correctly, giving her a smile as they picked up their guns.

"Alright, everyone," called Brock. "Let's go!"

He ran down the ramp and jumped, quickly disappearing below the clouds as he plummeted downwards towards the Earth.

Natasha followed, Jack and the others hot on her heels as they leapt from the Quinjet, immediately plunging silently earthwards, the freezing air chilling them within seconds.

Natasha gritted her teeth against the cold and the stomach-lurching feeling of falling as she accelerated in speed. Just when it started to feel unbearable, she saw Brock pull the cord on his parachute and quickly followed suit, relief flooding through her as she felt the strong jerk of the parachute opening, her descent slowing dramatically.

The Lemurian Star was visible beneath them, dim lights shining on the deck and through the portals, lighting it up like a beacon in the inky blackness of the Indian Ocean. The sea reflected the darkness of the night sky, shimmering as the waves crested and rolled in an endless, mesmerising pattern.

Natasha pulled the toggles of her parachute, guiding herself so that she was close to Brock, although not so close that she might risk tangling up their parachute lines.

She scanned the deck as they drew closer to the Lemurian Star, her breath hitching in her throat when she saw Steve standing stock still, a pirate holding a gun to his head.

Her hand went to her thigh immediately to grab her gun, but Brock got there first, raising his weapon and shooting the pirate once in the head.

The pirate fell to the deck, unmoving. Natasha let out a sigh of relief.

The deck of the Lemurian Star rushed up to meet them. Natasha bent her knees so that she would not jar her legs on impact, alighting on the ship with silent gracefulness.

She shrugged off her parachute, instinctively making a beeline for Steve and Brock, who were her two closest teammates as well as the ones in charge of the mission.

Steve was giving Brock a grateful smile, nodding at the dead pirate who Brock had just shot in order to save Steve's life.

"Thanks," said Steve.

Brock chuckled.

"Yeah, you seemed pretty helpless without me," he said, but there was no malice in his voice; it was just a friendly banter that came with years of working together as teammates.

Natasha caught Steve's eye, giving him a wink.

"What about the nurse that lives across the hall from you?" she said, not wanting a small thing like Steve leaping out of a plane to derail their earlier conversation. "She seems kind of nice."

Steve rolled his eyes.

"Secure the engine room," he said. " _Then_ find me a date.

Natasha turned away, walking off in the direction of the engine room. She had memorised it from the blueprints Brock had shown them earlier.

"I'm multi-tasking," she threw over her shoulder, seeing Steve give her a smile before she rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

She quickly made her way down through the passageways that led to the engine room, relying on her memory of the map as well as her highly-trained sense of direction to guide her to her desired destination.

If she was to complete Director Fury's mission and retrieve all the data that was stored on the ship, then she needed to complete her tasks for Brock and Steve as quickly as possible.

With this is mind, she ran quickly down the corridors, finding them mercifully empty as she made her way right down to the heart of the ship.

She finally arrived at the engine deck, slowing to a walk as she silently approached a man who was stood with his back to her, his ear pressed to the receiver of a telephone.

The man appeared to be listening intently to someone talking on the other end of the phone. Natasha stalked right up to him, her rubber-soled boots making no sound on the metal floor.

"OK," said the man, before hanging up.

He turned around, finding himself face to face with Natasha.

He stared at her with an expression of stunned surprise.

Natasha smiled.

"Hey, sailor," she said sweetly.

Before the man could respond, she lashed out, kicking him hard in the knee, causing him to collapse to the ground.

She pulled a device from her belt, wrapping a length of thick wire around the pirate's neck and attaching the other end of the wire to a harness wrapped around her waist.

She gave the wire a firm tug, snapping the man's neck, killing him instantly.

Pulling out two pistols, she flipped herself over the balcony. With the pirate's dead weight keeping her from free-falling, she descended through a central shaft that led to the engine room, shooting pirates as she descended through the levels, one gun in each hand.

The pirates were dead on the floor before they even realised where the attack was coming from.

Reaching the bottom of the shaft, she unclipped the wire from her harness, running in the direction of the engine room. She was close now, the engine room just 50 yards and an unknown number of pirates away.

She was part way down the corridor when she heard the voice of one of the new STRIKE Team Delta members come over comms.

"Targets acquired."

"STRIKE in position," whispered Brock.

"Natasha, what's your status?" said Steve. "Status, Natasha?"

Natasha turned a corner, her heart rate skyrocketing as she came face to face with three angry-looking pirates.

"Hang on!" she spat over comms, running and jumping up onto the shoulders of the nearest.

She pressed the metal ends of the Widow's Bite weapon to the exposed neck of the man, activating the device and sending a jolt of electricity into his body. He jerked once, before slumping to the ground, unconscious.

The second pirate gave a roar, rushing at her in blind rage. Natasha lashed out, kicking him in the torso to unbalance him before punching him hard in the head, knocking him out.

The third pirate kept his distance, pulling out a gun and pointing it at her, his fingers fumbling with the safety catch. Natasha rushed at him, grabbing the gun out of his hands and hitting him with it. The man stumbled, momentarily stunned. Taking advantage of his confused state, she grabbed him by the waist, throwing him bodily over her shoulder onto the ground.

"Engine room secure," she said, pressing the comms device to her throat.

Hearing shuffling behind her, she picked up a long metal wrench, swinging it around and catching the third pirate on the temple. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

Natasha wiped her forehead, panting with exertion, before walking over to the controls and killing the engines, as Steve had instructed.

As soon as she heard the tell-tale sounds of the engine shutting down, she began running back towards the stairs, her breaths coming out quick and sharp as she ascended the narrow spiral stairway.

She gritted her teeth against the inevitable sense of nausea that came with running upwards in such tight circles, letting out a huge sigh of relief when she finally emerged on the deck, sucking in a big lungful of cool sea air.

Keeping to the shadows in case any of the pirates – or indeed, her own SHIELD teammates – were nearby, she slipped into one of the ship's computer rooms, which again she had memorised from the map Brock had showed them.

Luckily, the computer was already on, so it was a simple case of inserting the USB stick into the port and inputting a command into the computer to start copying all of the ship's files onto the little metal stick.

A small bar displayed on the screen, showing the percentage of files downloaded. She drummed her fingers impatiently on the table top. The bar was moving too slowly.

If it kept going at this pace, she would not be able to meet the others at the extraction point on time. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking of what she could tell the others that could explain her delay. She could always say that she ran into some more pirates, she supposed, but what if they saw her emerging from the computer room?

She shook herself, reminding herself that she was a professional. No one would see her leave the computer room – she was better than that.

Brock's voice suddenly came over comms, jerking her from her thoughts.

"Hostages en route to extraction," he said. "Romanoff missed the rendezvous point, Cap. Hostiles are still in play."

"Natasha, Batroc's on the move," said Steve, his voice sounding tinny over comms. "Circle back to Rumlow and protect the hostages. Natasha?"

He let out a grunt as someone smashed into him.

Natasha looked up in alarm, blinking in surprise when she saw Steve and Batroc facing one another on the deck right outside the computer room she was currently hiding in.

She glanced at the progress of the download bar on the screen. It read 51%.

She quickly looked around. The lights were off, so it was not as if the room was particularly visible from the deck, but if they looked carefully, they would undoubtedly see her hunched over the computer.

"Come on..." she muttered, urging the files on the screen to download faster as Steve and Batroc started engaging in hand-to-hand combat outside.

It was strange, to be able to see them through the window whilst simultaneously listening to Steve's grunts over comms. It felt as though she was watching it on TV.

She clenched her fists, her gaze locked on the progress bar on the screen. It was moving agonisingly slowly, increasing by 1% at a time. She huffed with frustration, feeling impotent as she watched the screen, knowing that she could do nothing to speed up the computer.

A sudden crashing noise to her left had her almost inhaling her hair as she whipped around to see Steve and Batroc lying on the splintered remains of what had been the door to the computer room.

As she watched, Steve head-butted Batroc in the face, finally causing the other man to slump unconscious.

She stood silently for a moment, internally debating what to do. If she moved, he would undoubtedly see her, but if she remained where she was, he would eventually just look up and see her too.

She sighed, accepting the fact that Steve had caught her. At least it was only Steve, she reasoned; out of everyone on the team, she trusted Steve the most. She just hoped Director Fury would not be too angry at her for having been caught.

"Well, this is awkward," she quipped, shooting Steve a smile when he looked up at her in surprise.

"What are you doing?" asked Steve, gingerly extricating himself from Batroc and getting to his feet.

"Backing up the hard drive," she said. "It's a good habit to get into."

Steve frowned.

"Rumlow needed your help," he said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He walked over the short distance to where she was stood, staring down at the screen that showed that the download process was almost complete.

"You're saving SHIELD intel."

It was a statement, not a question.

All the same, Natasha nodded.

"Whatever I can get my hands on," she said.

"Our mission is to rescue hostages," said Steve angrily.

"No, that's  _your_ mission," she corrected. "And you've done it beautifully."

The download bar finally reached 100%, the files flashing green before disappearing. Natasha snatched the USB stick out of its port, sticking it into the secret compartment she had sewn into her bra.

Mission competed.

She turned to walk towards the door, but Steve grabbed hold of her arm, forcing her to look at him.

"You just jeopardised this whole operation," he snapped.

Natasha frowned.

"I think that's overstating things," she said.

Before Steve could reply, however, there was a flurry of movement from the other side of the room. Batroc jumped to his feet, throwing what Natasha instantly recognised as a grenade at them, before sprinting from the room.

Steve grabbed her by the waist, lifting her bodily as he sprinted towards the nearest window. Understanding his intention, Natasha raised her arm and fired two shots at the window, shattering it just before Steve jumped through it. The hot blast of the grenade pushed them hard, singing a couple of hairs on her neck.

They fell to the ground hard, both of them sitting up with pained groans as they slumped against the wall. Natasha could smell the acrid stench of smoke and burned plastic.

"OK," said Natasha. "That one's on me."

Steve sighed, still sounding irritated but also very much relieved that they had both survived the blast of the grenade.

"You're damn right," he said.

They got to their feet gingerly, checking one another over for any visible injuries and thankfully finding none.

"Fury gave me this mission in confidence," said Natasha, after a long pause. "Don't tell the others."

Steve grunted, slinging his shield over his back as he made his way out onto the deck.

The Quinjet they had arrived on had landed a short distance away. They walked over to find Brock and the others shepherding the freed hostages onto the plane.

"Where did you guys get to?" asked Brock, his brown eyes flicking between the two of them.

Natasha held her breath, her heart hammering as she waited to Steve to reply. She hoped, desperately, that he would not blow her cover. Steve was silent for a moment, the seconds stretching out in Natasha's anxiety-filled mind.

"We ran into Batroc," said Steve evenly. "We lost the bastard when he threw a grenade at us."

Brock grimaced.

"Bad luck. He won't get far though," he said. "STRIKE Team Charlie are on their way now. They'll track down and arrest the pirates. Our job was just to rescue the hostages, so let's get out of here."

Steve nodded, following the final hostage up the ramp onto the Quinjet.

Once a quick headcount confirmed that all the hostages and STRIKE Team Delta members were on board, the Quinjet rose high into the air, quickly rising above the clouds as the pilot set a course back to Washington DC.

"Congrats on a mission well done, everyone," said Brock. "All the hostages are out unharmed. Y'all did good."

Natasha smiled and mumbled congratulations along with the rest of the team.

Unlike the others, however, her concentration was not on the hostages, but on the USB stick nestled safely inside her bra.

 

* * *

 

Natasha slid the USB stick across Director Fury's desk.

He picked it up, smiling with grim satisfaction.

"Good job, Agent Romanoff," he said, tucking the USB stick into his desk drawer. "I knew you could do it."

"Captain Rogers caught me," said Natasha, wringing her hands with frustration. "He didn't tell the others, but I thought you ought to know."

Director Fury nodded.

"OK, thanks for the heads up," he said. "Take the rest of the day off. Tomorrow too, if you like."

Natasha looked up in surprise. She had expected to be reprimanded for slipping up and getting caught, not to receive a day or two off work as a reward for getting the job done. Director Fury must have  _really_ wanted to get his hands on this intel, she realised.

"Thank you, sir," she said, giving him a smile before exiting his office.

The drive home was an uneventful one, the tarmac slipping by as the sun slowly sank in the sky.

Upon arriving home, she cooked herself some dinner before settling down in an armchair and digging out an anthology of poems by Alexander Pushkin that she had bought recently.

It was nice, to read poetry in her mother tongue of Russian. The words touched her more deeply, the meanings of the words seeming more intimate, more familiar, when it was in the language she had known from birth.

She flicked through to her favourite poem "Confession", curling her legs beneath herself as she immersed herself in the words.

It was the very first poem that Madame B had read out to them when she had tried to teach them that poetry was pointless. Its lines about friendship and love had been supposed to repulse the Red Room Academy girls, but with Natasha it had had the opposite effect, opening her eyes to the simple, raw beauty that could be created through words.

_Love... the frivolous disorder fills every jitter of my soul._

She smiled, reading the lines slowly, closing her eyes at times to turn the words over in her head. Time passed quickly, and by the time her coffee had gone cold and the sauce from her meal had dried onto the plate, she was completely relaxed, boneless in her armchair as her eyes drank in yet more Russian poetry.

Her clock chimed quietly, indicating that it was midnight.

She looked up in surprise at the sound, her eyes widening when she saw the time. Standing up and stretching, she closed the poetry book, tucking it under her arm and walking in the direction of her bedroom with the intention of going to bed, when her mobile phone began to ring.

She frowned, looking down at the caller ID as the phone buzzed in her hand.

**Calling... Maria Hill**

She picked up the call immediately. Maria did not usually call her this late, especially on a work night. Something felt very, very wrong.

"Hey," she said, trying not to let her trepidation show in her voice. "What's up?"

"Fury's been shot," said Maria. "It's a suspected assassination attempt."

The poetry book fell to the ground.

For a moment, Natasha stood stock still; too stunned, too shocked, to move.

No.It was not possible. _Fury, shot?_  He was an ever-constant presence, comforting in his reliability. It did not seem possible that someone could harm him. He seemed untouchable.

Natasha had seen him earlier that very day. Everything had seemed fine, as always. The only thing that was different was the presence of the USB stick. Natasha's heart plummeted. Could the assassination attempt have something to do with the data on the USB stick? If that was the case, then it was partially Natasha's fault, as she was the one who had stolen it for him...

Maria's voice came over the phone, jerking her from her horrified thoughts.

"I was on my way to the Triskelion when I got the call from the hospital," she said. "And then my car fucking broke down. Can you come give me a lift?"

Natasha was already running across the room and grabbing her car keys before Maria could finish her sentence.

"Where are you?" she asked.

Maria reeled off the street name and her approximate location. Natasha promised her that she would be there as fast as she could before hanging up, bolting out of her flat and sprinting down the stairs at such a speed that even the stony-faced Madame B would have been impressed.

She jumped into her car, roaring off towards Maria's location, breaking the speed limit but not caring for the fine that was undoubtedly coming her way.

As it was so late, there was thankfully very little traffic, and so she arrived at Maria's location in just under 5 minutes.

She skidded to a halt, flinging open the passenger side door for Maria, waiting only long enough for her to get in and close the door before pulling off again, this time in the direction of the hospital.

"What happened?" she asked, still shell-shocked from what Maria had said on the phone.

Maria buckled up her seat belt, sucking in a shaky breath before replying. Natasha shot her a concerned look. Maria was shaking.

"I don't know much," she said. "Nick was apparently at Steve's apartment when he was shot in the chest. One of our agents was on the scene almost immediately. She called the hospital and Steve went off in pursuit of the shooter. Nick's in hospital now. He's being operated on."

Natasha's hands tightened around the steering wheel. It was horrible. But more importantly, something did not make sense.

"What was Nick doing at Steve's apartment?" she asked, frowning. "The two of them aren't exactly close."

Maria shrugged, looking just as lost on that particular point as Natasha.

"I don't know," she said.

Natasha chewed on her lip. It was odd; the latest strange thing in a day of strange occurrences. She would have to ask Steve about it when she saw him.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the hospital, flashing their SHIELD badges and rushing straight to the part of the hospital where emergency operations took place.

They slipped into a room that was located next to the operating theatre, a large glass window allowing them to see everything that was happening in the other room. Sounds from the operating theatre were being played through speakers. Natasha supposed that under normal circumstances, this would be where medical students observed operations taking place as part of their training.

Brock, Jack and other members of STRIKE were stood at the back of the room.

Natasha walked to the front of the room, coming to a stop next to Steve who was nose-to-nose with the glass. Maria walked forwards and stood next to her on her other side, the three of them peering through the glass in horror.

Nick Fury was lying on his back, his trademark black leather jacket and suit missing in favour of a thin hospital gown. Doctors and nurses were surrounding him, tubes and wires keeping him sedated as they cut out the bullet in his chest. 

He looked so fragile.

"Is he going to make it?" whispered Natasha.

Steve exhaled gently, his breath misting up the glass.

"I don't know," he said.

Natasha balled her hands into fists. She hated this, this feeling of uselessness. The doctors were working tirelessly to save him, and all she could do was stand and watch.

She focused her anger, forcing herself to think logically and work out what she could  _help_ with.

"Tell me about the shooter," she said, because this she could do.

She was a spy, one of the best. If she could not help save Nick Fury's life in the operating theatre, she could damn well catch the bastard who put him there.

"He's fast," said Steve. "Strong. Had a metal arm."

Natasha drew in a sharp intake of breath, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest as her hands grew cold and clammy.

A metal arm.

The Winter Soldier.

It had to be. It could not be a coincidence. There could not be multiple metal-armed assassins running around.

Just a couple of weeks ago, Nick Fury had come to her apartment to tell her that a message about the Winter Soldier had been sent out using a defunct SHIELD comms channel. Now, the Winter Soldier had shot Nick Fury. Natasha's stomach churned violently. Whatever was happening, it was big.

Her head spun, her mind struggling to comprehend how a nightmarish man she had first met aged 16 in Madame B's bedroom was somehow, once again, inserting himself into her life.

"Ballistics?" asked Natasha, because she had to be sure.

"Three slugs," said Maria. "No rifling. Completely untraceable."

"Soviet-made," said Natasha numbly, her voice flat and her whole body strung tight.

Maria turned to look at her in surprise, her eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," she said.

Natasha let out a shuddering breath, fear and uncertainty whooshing through her body as she considered the consequences of the Winter Soldier getting involved with SHIELD. Wherever he went, death followed. It was his signature, his calling card. If the Winter Soldier was here, then something big was going on.

The sudden beeping of machines pulled her attention back to the present. In the operating theatre, the medical staff burst into a flurry of activity, calling out terms that Natasha had very little knowledge of, other than they sounded  _bad_.

"He's in V-tach!"

"Crash cart coming in."

"Nurse, help me with the drape."

Natasha watched helplessly as the medical staff rushed around, their hands on Nick, their eyes on the machines that were beeping urgently.

"BP's dropping!"

Natasha looked around in alarm. She was fairly certain that BP stood for blood pressure. She leaned forward, her forehead pressed against the glass, urging Nick to keep fighting. SHIELD needed Nick Fury, perhaps now more than ever.

The machine showing his pulse flatlined.

One of the doctors straightened up, an urgent expression on his face.

"Defibrillator!" he called. "I want you to charge him at 100."

A nurse brought over a defibrillator, fiddling with the settings to set the right amount of charge.

Natasha bit down on her bottom lip, so hard that she tasted blood.

"Don't do this to me, Nick," she urged, staring at him desperately through the glass.

The doctor approached him, the defibrillator paddles ready in his hands.

"Stand back! Three, two, one. Clear!" The doctor placed the paddles to Nick's chest, zapping him and causing his body to lurch upwards. "Pulse?"

"No pulse."

"OK. 200, please. Stand back. Three, two, one. Clear!" said the doctor, bringing down the defibrillator paddles to Nick's chest once more. "Get me epinephrine! Pulse?"

"Negative."

Natasha felt a lump forming in her throat, her knuckles turning white from the strength with which she clenched her hands into fists.

"Don't do this to me, Nick," she begged quietly, the words almost a prayer. "Don't do this to me."

Her heart jumped to her throat when the medical staff stilled in their movements, stepping back from where he lay on the operating table. The lead surgeon bowed his head, removing the breathing tube from Nick's mouth.

"What's the time?" he said.

One of the nurses checked her watch.

"1:03, Doctor," she said.

The surgeon placed one hand on Nick's shoulder, looking down at him with sadness.

"Time of death, 1:03am."

Natasha sucked in a deep breath. She felt sick, as if there was suddenly not enough oxygen in the room. Her mind was a heaving mass of blind panic and disbelief. Nick Fury could not be gone. It did not seem possible.

Inside the operating theatre, the lead surgeon pulled a sheet up to cover Nick's body, leaving just his head and shoulders exposed. Natasha watched, numb, as the nurses began pushing his bed out of the operating theatre.

She whined low in her throat, turning around quickly because suddenly she felt the need to be near him, because it felt as though she still had so many questions she needed to ask him, so many more things she wanted to say.

Maria caught her by the wrists.

"Natasha," she began, her lips a firm line that looked, somehow, as though it were about to crumble away at the edges.

"I need to see him," Natasha blurted out, because even though it was stupid, she could not deny herself the inexplicable urge to see him one last time, if only to see for herself that he was dead.

Maria relented, relaxing her grip on Natasha's wrists and instead giving her hands a soft squeeze.

"OK," she said gently. "But sooner or later, I'm going to need to take his body. I'm the most senior SHIELD agent here, so I need to take him."

Natasha nodded, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

Maria led them out of the room. Natasha and Steve followed her, walking past the gang of STRIKE agents who were whispering softly together. They walked a short distance down the corridor, where they were directed by the lead surgeon into a smaller side room.

"My condolences," said the surgeon. "I understand you'll take him from here, Agent Hill?"

Maria nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "But is it OK if Natasha says goodbye first?"

The surgeon nodded.

"Of course," he said, stepping back to allow them to walk into the room.

Natasha, Maria and Steve entered the room. Natasha felt her breath catch in her throat when she saw Nick. His bed was in the centre of the room, a plain white sheet covering him from the shoulders down.

She drifted over to him, barely aware of her movements until she was stood right next to him, looking down at his still, peaceful-looking form lying on the hospital bed.

Her heart ached as she looked down at him, her mind still bursting with questions.

Why had he been shot? Was it to do with the USB stick? What was  _on_ the USB stick? Why had he been at Steve's apartment? How did the Winter Soldier tie into all of this?

She longed to speak to him one last time, to ask for his help, his advice, his guidance.

This post-Nick Fury world felt more unstable, more uncertain than the one that had preceded it.

She was not aware of how much time passed, but eventually her legs hurt from standing and her eyes hurt from staring and then Maria was speaking, making her jump because honestly Natasha had forgotten that there was anyone else in the room besides her and Nick Fury.

"I need to take him," Maria said gently.

Natasha did not move. She felt compelled to stay. Nick looked so peaceful, as if he were simply sleeping.

"Natasha," said Steve.

Natasha reached out, gently laying a hand on Nick's head as she said a silent goodbye. She bit her lip as tears suddenly filled her eyes, making it hard to see. He still felt warm.

She turned abruptly, no longer able to face looking at Nick's still-warm corpse. She strode out of the room, not looking at Steve or Maria as she swept past them, suddenly feeling as if she were suffocating in that small side room.

She walked out into the corridor, hearing but not particularly caring for the set of footsteps that hurried after her.

"Natasha!" said Steve.

She whirled around, suspicion and anger suddenly thrumming through her veins as she stared hard at Steve. Nick had gone to Steve's apartment. He had been  _shot dead_  in Steve's apartment.

Steve knew something; he  _had_ to.

"Why was Fury in your apartment?" she demanded.

Steve tensed, sighing and shrugging awkwardly in what was obviously supposed to be a gesture of nonchalance but was actually the exact opposite.

"I don't know," he said.

Natasha's eyes narrowed, every instinct in her body screaming that he was lying.

Before she could confront him about it, however, a pair of heavy boots approached them, stomping down the hospital corridor. Natasha looked up to see Brock striding over to them.

"Cap, they want you back at SHIELD," he said, addressing Steve.

Steve nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "Give me a second."

"They want you now," said Brock.

Steve looked a little taken aback by Brock's bluntness but kept his face neutral, nodding once more.

"OK," he said.

Brock turned and walked away to where the rest of the STRIKE team were gathered at the end of the corridor.

Natasha waited until he was out of earshot before turning back to Steve.

"You're a terrible liar," she said.

Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and walked away in the opposite direction, away from Brock and the rest of the STRIKE team. She was not sure where she was going, she just needed to get away from Steve and his lies, needed to get rid of the nervous energy in her system.

When she reached the end of the corridor, she stopped, turning back around to gaze at the scene in front of her.

Her colleagues from STRIKE Team Delta were deep in conversation at the other end of the corridor. A man was restocking the vending machine. Steve had not moved, hovering near the vending machine where they had been talking just moments before.

Something about Steve's posture caught her attention. Years of training with the Red Room Academy, the KGB and SHIELD had made her exceptionally good at spotting suspicious behaviour, and right now, everything about Steve's tense posture was settling off alarm bells and red flags.

She watched closely as he glanced over to the STRIKE team and then plunged his hand into his pocket. Natasha cocked her head to the side as he waited until the vending machine man's back was turned, before quickly reaching out and depositing something into the vending machine.

Mission seemingly accomplished, he turned and walked over to the rest of the STRIKE team, the whole lot of them then finally disappearing around the corner as they left the hospital to go back to the Triskelion.

Natasha stood still, keeping her stance deliberately casual as she watched the hospital worker finish stocking up the vending machine before, finally, he walked away.

Natasha waited for his footsteps to recede fully into silence before darting forward and peering into the vending machine.

After a couple of seconds, she spotted it. Hidden behind the strawberry bubble gum was something small and metallic. Her heart hammered in her chest as she thrust her hand into her pocket and brought out some change, feeding the coins into the machine and pressing the appropriate buttons to clear out their entire stock of strawberry bubble gum.

Several anxiety-drenched seconds later, she held a handful of bubble gum and very thing that, in her mind, was no doubt the centre of this entire mess: the USB stick containing the data she had stolen from the Lemurian Star.

Pocketing the USB stick, she turned and quickly put a couple of floors distance between her and the vending machine, eventually finding herself in a waiting room. She sank down onto one of the hard plastic chairs, letting her head fall into her hands.

Around her, posters proclaimed the importance of getting your vaccinations done before going on holiday, lest you want to return with a whole host of terrible-sounding diseases, but Natasha did not see the bright, garish colours.

She sat there, numb, her mind still not quite processing the shocking events that had transpired. It was the middle of the night, so the waiting room was devoid of patients, but occasionally a doctor or a nurse would pass through, giving her curious looks as they did so.

Natasha did not see or hear them. Her mind was filled with shock, pain and horror.

Nick Fury had been assassinated.

Nick Fury was dead.

She and Nick had never been close, they had not been friends, but he had given her a chance when she had first come to the US, when few others would have done.

He had not been her greatest fan by any means, but he  _could_ have refused her request to join SHIELD outright, and he had not.  He had given her a chance, given her a chance to prove him wrong, to prove that she could be good, that she could be more than the killer the KGB had made her to be.

They had not been friends, but she owed him a lot.

Natasha did not like to be in anyone's debt.

She fell asleep at around 4am, her hand clutched tight around the USB stick in her jacket pocket and her head resting on the cold, hard stone of the hospital wall.

 

* * *

 

She awoke late the next morning, blinking her eyes blearily and wincing at the crick in her neck that had developed as a result of sleeping in such an uncomfortable position.

The events of the previous night flooded back to her, her hand shooting into her jacket pocket immediately. She let out a long sigh of relief when her hand closed around the USB stick.

She yawned and stood up, stretching and letting out a hiss when her joints popped and cracked.

She crossed the waiting room and drank from a water fountain, straightening up once she had had her fill.

Her thirst quenched, she finally remembered what had roused her from her slumber: vibrations in her pocket. She pulled out her phone, tapping the screen and seeing a new email that had been sent to her just a few minutes previously.

It was from SHIELD and was labelled with an exclamation mark that indicated that it was urgent. She tapped on the notification, her eyes widening when she read the email's subject line.

**WANTED: STEVE ROGERS**

She stared at her phone in disbelief. Steve Rogers was a wanted man?  _Captain America_  was wanted?

She opened the email, her stomach plunging as she scanned its contents.

_Steve Rogers... fugitive... lied about the death of Director Fury... Instructions are to arrest him on sight... Use of force authorised..._

Phrases jumped out at her, sending chills down her spine as she skim-read the email. It had been sent to every single SHIELD agent, she realised. SHIELD was literally pouring all of its manpower into finding Steve.

She chewed on her lip. Steve  _was_ hiding something about the death of Nick Fury. It had been painfully obvious last night, when he had tried and failed miserably in his attempt to lie to her. But she knew, instinctively, that his lies were a result of his desire to protect Nick's privacy, not to protect himself.

She trusted Steve. He would never have done anything to harm Nick. Whyever he was lying, he must have a good reason.

She closed her eyes, breathing deeply as she centred her thoughts. She had to find Steve before SHIELD did. He was in trouble, he was her friend, and he potentially had answers regarding Nick's death. She had to find him.

Her eyes snapped open, things suddenly becoming crystal clear as certain pieces fell into place in her mind.

She knew exactly where he was going to be: the vending machine.

He had hidden the USB stick there, undoubtedly so that he could collect it later. She pulled her hoodie up over her head and quickly navigated her way back to the vending machine.

The email had been sent around 10 minutes before, informing all SHIELD agents that Steve had just ran from the Triskelion. Taking into account the distance between the Triskelion and the hospital, as well as Steve's top speed of around 30mph, she estimated that he could arrive in anything between 10 to 40 minutes, depending on how quickly he wanted to move.

Using his super-speed would mean he got there faster, of course, but it would also attract unwanted attention. If Steve was smart, he would avoid running any faster than the average man.

Natasha nestled herself in a deserted side room that was situated directly opposite the vending machine, waiting patiently for Steve to arrive.

As it turned out, Steve was smart.

35 minutes passed before an unmistakable figure stepped into her field of vision, peering intently into the vending machine.

Steve was wearing trainers, tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie, the hood pulled up over his head to disguise him from casual passers-by. Natasha smiled, pleased.

Stepping forward, Natasha announced her presence by blowing an obscenely large bubble of strawberry bubble gum, the loud pop making him turn around.

Steve whirled around, staring at her incredulously for a moment, before grabbing her by the arm and hauling her into a side room. He pushed her up against a wall, his hands pressing firmly against her arms, stopping her from escaping.

"Where is it?" he demanded.

Natasha looked up at him in concern. His eyes were wide, panicked. He looked frightened, the stress of being on the run clearly affecting him.

"Steve–" she began, trying to calm him down, but Steve cut in before she could continue.

"Do better," he said, clearly thinking that she was trying to wrong-foot him.

Rather than being offended, Natasha breathed deeply, calming herself and deciding to cut straight to the chase.

"Where did you get it?" she asked.

Steve flinched.

"Why would I tell you?" he said.

Natasha frowned, not at his words, but at his flinch. It was the tiniest movement, unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but Natasha picked up on it instantly. So, he did not want to say where he got it, which could only mean one thing...

"Fury gave it to you," she surmised. "Why?"

Steve glared at her, clearly annoyed and slightly disturbed that she had worked out the truth so quickly.

"What's on it?" he said, not bothering to deny it.

"I don't know," said Natasha.

"Stop lying!"

Natasha felt a rush of anger at Steve's accusation. To call Natasha a liar after telling nothing but lies about the circumstances around Nick's death struck her as hypocritical.

"I only act like I know everything, Rogers!" she snapped, hoping that the use of his surname would adequately communicate her annoyance.

Steve glanced around nervously, his eyes flicking to the door, making sure they were not being overheard.

"I bet you knew Fury hired the pirates, didn't you?" he said, his voice low and sharp.

Natasha shrugged.

"Well, it makes sense," she said. "The ship was dirty. Fury needed a way in, so do you."

Steve shook her angrily, clearly frustrated by her lack of straight answers.

"I'm not going to ask you again," he said.

"I know who killed Fury!"

The words were tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop herself, her confession stunning both of them into silence. Natasha's breath came out in sharp bursts. Steve's grip on her arms relaxed completely as his arms fell limply to his sides.

Natasha swallowed back her anxiety and continued before she could lose her nerve.

"Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists," she said. "The ones that do call him the Winter Soldier. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last 50 years."

The tension left Steve's shoulders as he sighed disappointedly.

"So he's a ghost story," he said.

Natasha shook her head, desperate for him to understand. The Winter Soldier was real. Perhaps the rumours of his 50-year killing streak were wrong – they  _had_ to be – but the man himself was not a force to be reckoned with.

"Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran," she said, shivering as she remembered the stomach-churning feeling of free-falling off the edge of the cliff. "Somebody shot out my tyres near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out, but the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him straight through me. Soviet slug, no rifling. Bye bye, bikinis."

She lifted up her top to reveal the ugly scar that marred her left side, the skin tingling with phantom pain as it did every time she thought about the events of Odessa.

"Yeah, I bet you look terrible in them now," said Steve weakly, but his expression was a little uncertain, no longer the mask of disbelief that it had been before.

"Going after him is a dead end. I know, I've tried," she said, pulling the USB out from her pocket and holding it up for Steve to take. "Like you said, he's a ghost story."

Steve's gaze flicked up to meet her eyes, scrutinising her for an agonisingly long moment before giving her a tiny nod and taking the USB stick.

"Well, let's find out what the ghost wants," he said. "How do we do this?"

Natasha chewed on her bottom lip, deliberately ignoring the tingling pain in her scar.

"The Winter Soldier killed Nick for what was on that USB stick," she said. "So I'd say the USB stick is a pretty good place to start."

"OK," said Steve, giving Natasha a tentative smile.

Natasha smiled back.

It was time to hunt the ghost.

 

* * *

 

They strolled casually through the shopping centre.

Natasha set the pace, keeping a sharp eye on Steve to make sure he did not exceed the speed she had set.

They passed by an indoor fountain, the sound of the running water soothing her nerves marginally. The panicked look in Steve's eyes suggested that he was not feeling equally calmed.

"First rule of going on the run is don't run, walk," she said.

"If I run in these shoes, they're going to fall off," muttered Steve.

Natasha smiled. If Steve was still able to crack jokes, then they had a chance of pulling this off. She just hoped that he would not crack under the pressure. If the Winter Soldier was involved, then there was no room for errors.

They rode the escalator up one floor, following the directions helpfully provided by the floor layout guide.

Natasha kept a sharp eye out for SHIELD agents, but thankfully she did not spot anyone she recognised. SHIELD must be assuming that the wanted Steve Rogers would not go on a shopping trip. That was their error; you should assume nothing.

She nodded towards their destination. They marched towards their goal, entering the shop with their heads bowed so that the security camera would not get a clear shot of their faces.

The Apple store was clean and white, already busy with customers eager to try out the latest tech.

Natasha led the way towards the laptops, cutting through the groups of customers easily. Steve hurried after her, careful to keep his head ducked low to reduce the chances of someone recognising him. Natasha had stolen a pair of glasses for him as a disguise, but they were only a stop-gap measure, something to throw off the casual observer, but useless against someone who was actively searching for him.

She came to a stop next to a laptop that looked powerful enough to serve their purposes, holding out her hand expectantly. Steve thrust his hand into his hoodie pocket, pulling out the USB drive and placing it in her palm.

Natasha held it in her hand, feeling the weight of it in her palm.

"This drive has a Level Six homing program," she said. "As soon as we boot up, SHIELD will know exactly where we are."

Steve flinched, looking around nervously. Natasha forced herself not to berate him; telling him off would only agitate him further and further jeopardise their chances.

"How much time will we have?" he asked.

Natasha took a deep breath, briefly running through the ballet routine in her head to calm her nerves, before quickly inserting the USB stick into the laptop's USB port.

"About nine minutes from now," she said, ignoring Steve's anxious hitch of breath.

She quickly opened the USB stick's file, frowning as she tried inputting various commands. The file did not open. Anxiety thrummed in her veins as she typed out various instructions, all to no avail.

"Fury was right about that ship," she said. "Somebody's trying to hide something. This drive is protected by some kind of AI. It keeps rewriting itself to counter my commands."

"Can you override it?" said Steve.

Natasha sighed with frustration.

"The person who developed this is slightly smarter than me," she said. "I'm going to try running a tracer. This is a program that SHIELD developed to track hostile malware, so if we can't read the file, maybe we can find out where it came from."

She quickly typed up the code for the tracer program, her fingers flying over the keyboard before finally hitting enter.

She gazed down at the screen, desperately willing the machine to go faster as it slowly worked out the location of the USB stick's origin.

An unfamiliar voice suddenly boomed out behind them.

"Can I help you guys with anything?"

Natasha whirled around, taking in the sight of the Apple employee – slightly overweight, long blonde hair, smiley expression – in a split second, before beaming and wrapping her arms around Steve affectionately.

"Oh no," she gushed. "My fiancé was just helping me with some honeymoon destinations."

"Right!" said Steve, his tone only  _slightly_ hysterical, which Natasha counted as a win. "We're getting married!"

The Apple employee did not seem to notice anything amiss, his smile simply stretching wider as he looked at the supposed couple with glee.

"Congratulations!" he said. "Where are you guys thinking about going?"

A beep from the laptop indicated that it had located the source of the file. Natasha and Steve both turned to look at the screen, their eyes zeroing in on the location it was displaying.

"New Jersey," said Steve in response to the man's question, reading the location on the screen.

A slightly awkward silence followed, the Apple employee obviously underwhelmed by their unexotic choice of honeymoon destination.

Natasha shifted uneasily as the man suddenly stared intently at Steve, leaning forwards, his eyes screwing up and his mouth opening wide.

She hurriedly turned her attention back to the laptop, silently urging it to go faster as it narrowed down the location further and further.

She was filled with a sense of dread. The man had recognised Steve, she was sure of it, he was going to either slow them down or blow their cover or–

"I have the exact same glasses!" the man exclaimed.

Natasha felt giddy with relief, letting out a slow exhale as Steve laughed along with the man at the strange glasses-related coincidence.

"Wow," she said. "You two are practically twins."

The Apple employee laughed, before pretending to worship Steve's physique. Natasha hid a grin behind her hand.

"Yeah, I wish!" said the man. "Specimen!"

Steve smiled awkwardly, apparently at a loss for words, unable to cope with any more of the man's overenthusiastic friendliness.

"If you guys need anything, I've been Aaron," said the man – Aaron – pointing to his name badge as he smiled brightly.

"Thank you," said Steve, letting out a long sigh of relief when Aaron finally walked away.

Natasha drummed her fingers against the table top, waiting patiently for the computer to find the exact coordinates of the file's origin.

Steve checked his watch nervously.

"You said nine minutes," he hissed. "Come on."

"Shh. Relax," she said, her heart rate jumping when the computer finally locked on to the exact coordinates. "Got it."

They leaned in to the screen, almost bumping heads as they read the name of the location.

**Wheaton, NJ.**

Steve frowned, cocking his head to the side as if the name Wheaton meant something to him.

"You know it?" asked Natasha.

Steve nodded.

"I used to," he said. "Let's go."

Grabbing the USB stick from the port, he stuffed it back into his hoodie pocket, pulling Natasha urgently towards the exit of the store. They passed Aaron on the way out, smiling politely when he gave them a little wave.

They exited the Apple store, joining the throngs of people wandering around the shopping centre.

Steve quickly glanced around, scouting out the area.

"Standard tac team," he said. "Two behind, two across and two coming straight at us. If they make us, I'll engage, you hit the south escalator to the metro."

Natasha looked up, seeing the two agents heading towards them immediately.

"Shut up and put your arm around me," she said tersely. "Laugh at something I said."

Steve turned to look at her in confusion.

"What?"

" _Do it_ ," said Natasha.

Thankfully – because there was no time to explain – Steve did as he was told, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leaning in towards her, laughing.

Just as Natasha had predicted, the two agents walked straight past them without even looking at them. It was as if they were actively – although completely unconsciously – repelled by the sight of them.

Natasha felt a spurt of triumph. Madame B had taught her that trick years ago. This was the first time she was actually implementing it though. To know that it worked made her feel strangely satisfied.

Steve stared back at the agents in amazement, clearly stunned that they had not seen them.

"Stop staring," said Natasha, careful to keep her tone light and casual as she stepped onto an escalator that was descending down to the next level.

Her breath hitched as she spotted someone horribly familiar standing on the escalator next to theirs, going up. Brock Rumlow was dressed in civilian clothing, but his bright, alert eyes and upright posture told Natasha that he was not there for a spot of shopping.

She turned around abruptly, looking up at Steve who was stood on the step behind her.

"Kiss me," she ordered.

Steve blushed, his eyes darting around desperately in barely-controlled panic.

" _What?_ " he said.

"Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable," explained Natasha, speaking as quickly as possible, well aware that the escalators were bringing them and Brock ever nearer.

"Yes, they do," said Steve, clearly not following her train of thought.

Wincing internally, and apologising profusely in her head, she grabbed Steve by the back of the head and pulled him in for a kiss.

Steve offered no resistance, possibly too shocked to move, as Natasha held him gently by the face and kissed him tenderly. He tasted faintly of toothpaste, his cheeks burning hot in her hands, although whether that was through embarrassment or something much more primal, Natasha was not sure.

She watched the adjacent escalator out of the corner of her eye, another wave of relief flooding through her when Brock passed them without incident, actually looking away from their over the top public display of affection.

Natasha removed her lips from Steve’s immediately, turning back to face the front in case Brock turned back around for some reason.

"You still uncomfortable?" she asked, smirking slightly.

She heard Steve laugh nervously behind her.

"It's not exactly the word I would use," he said.

Natasha smirked, stepping off the escalator and heading towards the shopping centre exit, when Steve grabbed her by the hand. Natasha looked down at their joined hands curiously.

"Using romantic gestures to avoid attention seems to work," said Steve, shrugging awkwardly. "And anyway, we don't want to leave yet. There's a car park on the lower level."

He pulled her towards a flight of stairs that lead down to the lowest level, which contained the car park and some toilets.

They jogged down the stairs, their hands joined and their hoods up, looking for all the world like just a normal couple enjoying a day out to the mall.

They reached the bottom of the stairs. Steve pulled her into the car park, leading the way towards the far end.

After several minutes of walking through the huge underground car park, they reached the very end. Natasha looked around, realising that this part of the car park was completely deserted. She smiled.

"Steve Rogers, you sly dog," she said. "Do you take all your dates to deserted car park corners?"

Steve shook his head exasperatedly.

"Just keep watch, OK?" he said, before ducking behind the nearest car.

Natasha shrugged, turning back towards the direction they had come and keeping an eagle eye out for anyone coming their way. There was no one, and after several minutes, the beep of a car horn had her spinning around.

Steve was sat inside the car he had disappeared behind, grinning at her broadly.

Natasha's eyebrows shot up, impressed.

She quickly walked over to the car, opening the passenger-side door and sliding in, buckling up her seat belt.

Steve revved the engine, driving out of the car park and quickly joining the highway leading out of Washington DC.

Natasha began to relax as they placed more and more miles between them and the Triskelion, eventually putting her feet up on the dashboard as she leaned back, enjoying the view as they drove.

Steve was a good driver, smooth and safe and doing the optimum speed that meant that they were moving quickly, but not so quickly that they might attract attention.

"Where did Captain America learn how to steal a car?" she asked, after about half an hour of driving.

"Nazi Germany," he said. "And we're  _borrowing._ Take your feet off the dash."

Natasha smiled as she removed her feet from the dashboard.

She was impressed. Stealing a car was not a skill she would have thought he would possess.

"How much longer?" she asked.

Steve sighed, doing some quick calculations in his head.

"Maybe another 3 hours," he said. "You can nap, if you like. I'll wake you up when we get there."

Natasha nodded, suddenly realising how tired she really was after staying up so late the night before and then getting an unsatisfying night's sleep on the hospital chair.

She settled down against the car seat, letting the low rumble of the engine slowly lull her to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Steve shook her awake gently.

Natasha blinked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she looked around, seeing that they had finally stopped driving. Outside, the sky was darkening as the sun sank below the horizon.

Unbuckling her seat belt, she dug her phone out of her pocket, booting up an app that searched for electromagnetic signals in the nearby environment.

They clambered out of the car in silence, both of them on high alert as they scanned their surroundings. They were at what looked like an abandoned military base, tall wire fences surrounding barracks set in acres of land.

It looked almost spooky, the sunset casting long, eerie shadows around the buildings.

"This is it," murmured Steve.

Natasha glanced around, relaxing slightly when she sensed that they were alone.

"The file came from these coordinates," she said.

Steve walked forward, coming to a stop in front of a rusty sign lashed to the wire fence. Natasha walked up to his side, straining her eyes to read the sign in the increasing darkness.

**Camp Lehigh. US Army. Restricted Access.**

"So did I," said Steve.

He lifted a corner of the wire fence where it had come loose from the ground, letting Natasha crouch through the gap and duck into Camp Lehigh's grounds, before following her himself.

"This camp is where I was trained," said Steve.

Natasha raised her eyebrows. Steve did not talk often about his time before the ice.

"Change much?" she asked.

"A little."

They lapsed into silence. Natasha walked methodically around the camp, making sure to cover every single path, road and building. Her eyes were glued to the screen of her smartphone, watching carefully for any signs of electromagnetic activity.

After around 20 minutes, they found themselves back where they had started. Natasha sighed with disappointment.

"This is a dead end," she said. "Zero heat signatures, zero waves, not even radio. Whoever wrote the file must have used a router to throw people off."

She looked across at Steve, expecting to see him deflated with disappointment. Instead, he was looking over at the building behind her with a frown on his face.

"What is it?" she asked sharply.

"Army regulations forbid storing munitions within 500 yards of the barracks," said Steve, marching over to the building with a look of grim determination. "This building is in the wrong place."

Natasha followed him, coming to a stop in front of the door. It was locked, the two gates bound tightly together with a heavy metal chain and a padlock. She thrust her hand into her pocket, about to bring out her trusty lock-picking kit, when Steve smashed his shield against the lock, breaking it instantly.

She withdrew her hand from her pocket, smiling in the darkness.

They entered the building, the meagre light provided by the now-set sun filtering in through the windows and just allowing them to see in the darkness.

After an initial sweep of the building provided no evidence of technology modern enough to be the source of the USB stick's file, Steve tapped her on the shoulder, pointing to a flight of stairs at the very back of the room.

Natasha nodded, and together they crept through the darkness, slowly descending the stairs, straining their ears for any sign of hostiles.

It was silent. They finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs, finding themselves in a basement. Natasha felt along the walls, finding a light switch with her hands and flicking it on.

There was a sudden whirring noise as the lights flickered on, the old lamps making little popping noises as they burst into life.

Natasha blinked against the sudden surge of light, taking in her surroundings.

They were stood in what looked like an abandoned office. Old-fashioned office chairs were sat in front of wooden desks. Filing cabinets lined the walls. There was not a single computer in sight.

They were walking forwards when Natasha's attention was drawn to the wall directly in front of them, at the other side of the room. On it was painted the original SHIELD logo.

"This is SHIELD," said Natasha, unable to keep the amazement out of her voice.

"Maybe where it started," said Steve.

Finishing the sweep of the office, they entered into a smaller side room. This one was devoid of tables and chairs, but had shelves lining the walls. At one point, this could have been a library.

They walked a little further into the room. Natasha turned around to look back at where they had come from. She stopped, looking up in surprise at the photographs hung up on the wall.

She held out her hand to grab Steve gently by the arm. He turned, his eyes widening as he looked up at the old black and white photographs.

"There's Tony Stark's father," said Natasha, pointing to the picture of the suave, dark-haired genius.

"Howard," said Steve.

Natasha's gaze shifted to the photograph beside Howard's, showing a beautiful young woman with dark, wavy hair and bright, intelligent eyes. She had seen a photograph of this woman before, in Steve's flat when they had lived in New York.

"And there's Peggy Carter," she said softly.

Steve nodded stiffly, his eyes bright with what could have been tears, but before Natasha could see properly, he had turned away and marched further into the room.

Natasha sighed, following him. She was so distracted thinking about the old photographs that she almost walked into him, having not seen that Steve had come to a sudden stop.

Natasha looked at him, seeing him frowning, his head cocked to the side as if he were listening to something. Her heart sped up. She wondered what his super-hearing could detect.

Before she could ask, Steve lurched forwards, grabbing hold of two of the shelves and prising them apart. Natasha stared in shock as the hidden entrance to a lift was revealed.

"If you're already working in a secret office, why do you need to hide the elevator?" said Steve.

Natasha looked around for a button to summon the lift, her eyes instead falling on a button keycode pad at the right-hand side of the lift doors. She pulled her smartphone out of her pocket once more, this time booting up an app that would scan the pad for the amount of dirt and residue on each button.

She placed her phone in front of the pad, holding it still as it scanned the pad. After a few seconds it beeped, bringing up the code: 8539.

Natasha typed the code into the pad, letting out a sigh of relief when the code was accepted and the lift doors opened with a quiet  _ding_.

They stepped inside, breathing in the musty air as the door slid closed behind them. Natasha briefly wondered how well-maintained the lift cables were, but before she could start worrying about it, the lift jolted downwards, descending several levels before finally coming to a stop.

Natasha's heart rate sped up as they waited for the lift doors to open. They were finally going to find the source of the file on the USB stick. They were going to find out why Nick had been assassinated and perhaps find out why the Winter Soldier wanted it and–

Her train of thought was derailed when the lift doors shuddered open, the lights flickering on and revealing a room filled with decidedly old-fashioned technology.

They stepped out into the computer room, a wave of disappointment crashing over Natasha as she stared at the old, dusty tech. This equipment was older than she was.

"This can't be the data point," she said. "This technology is ancient."

She walked forwards, trying to squash down her misery. All this effort, for nothing. They were back at square one.

She was just about to tell Steve that they should get going when something bright and blue caught her attention. She stepped forwards curiously, her eyes widening when she saw a glowing blue USB port.

She hesitated momentarily. The USB port was hideously out-of-place amongst the ancient tech, instantly setting off alarm bells in her head. Swallowing back the feeling of unease, she inserted the USB stick into the port, jumping slightly when the old computers whirred into life around them.

"Initiate system?" said an automated voice on a nearby computer.

She walked over to it, seeing the same message displayed on the screen. Bending over, she typed in her response.

"Y-E-S spells yes," she said.

The computers powered up a gear, wheels spinning and generators whirring as the databanks seemed to awaken.

"Shall we play a game?" she smirked, turning to Steve. "It's from a movie that was really–"

Steve cut her off with a smile and a shake of his head.

"I know," he said. "I saw it."

Their attention was grabbed by the screen in front of them, which suddenly switched on, displaying a man's face in the limited colours available: green and black.

Natasha suppressed a shiver as she stared at the creepy face, her eyes flicking upwards when a camera geared into a life, seeming to point at Steve.

"Rogers, Steven. Born 1918," said the computer, before the camera turned towards Natasha. "Romanoff, Natalia Alianovna. Born 1984."

Natasha's eyes widened with shock. Very few people knew her middle name. In fact, in the US, the only people she had ever told were Nick Fury, Phil Coulson and Clint Barton. Phil and Nick were dead, and she was sure as hell that Clint was not the type to go around blabbing.

"It's some kind of recording," she said uneasily, ignoring the nauseous feeling in her stomach.

"I am not a recording, Fraulein," said the computer, somehow managing to sound imperious. "I may not be the man I was when the Captain took me prisoner in 1945, but I  _am_."

On a nearby computer, a photograph of a balding man with glasses flashed up on the screen. Steve gasped, staring at the photograph in shock.

"You  _know_ this thing?" she asked.

"Arnim Zola was a German scientist who worked for the Red Skull," said Steve nervously. "He's been dead for years."

"First correction, I am Swiss," said the computer – Zola. "Second, look around you. I have never been more alive. In 1972, I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body. My mind, however, that was worth saving, on 200,000 feet of databanks. You are standing  _in my brain_."

Steve glared at the image of Zola on the screen, unable to keep the disgust from his face.

"How did you get here?" he snapped.

"Invited," said Zola.

Steve turned helplessly towards Natasha, clearly at a loss at how to deal with the fact one of his long-dead enemies was in fact alive, in the loosest sense of the word.

Natasha gave him a sympathetic grimace, before forcing herself to focus on what the disembodied scientist was saying. A feeling of dread filled Natasha as she realised what Zola was talking about.

"It was Operation Paperclip after World War II," she said. "SHIELD recruited German scientists with strategic value."

"They thought I could help their cause," said Zola. "I also helped my own."

"HYDRA died with the Red Skull," said Steve.

His voice was desperate, almost frantic, but Natasha had the sinking feeling that he was wrong. If Zola was still alive on these databanks, then that meant that he must have had a whole team of people who helped him to achieve that.

HYDRA was obviously not as dead as everyone thought it was.

"Cut off one head, two more shall take its place," said Zola, manipulating the image on the screen to show one HYDRA logo splitting into two.

"Prove it," said Steve.

There was a pause, as if Zola was actually considering whether or not to follow Steve's command.

Natasha was suddenly reminded of the humanness that JARVIS had displayed, when he had spoken to her on the Helicarrier during the battle against Loki. There was one major difference though: Zola had none of JARVIS' warmth. Whilst JARVIS was a force for good, Zola was nothing short of evil.

"Accessing archive," said Zola, bringing up a video of the Red Skull on the screen. "HYDRA was founded on the belief that humanity could not the trusted with its own freedom. What we did not realise was that if you try to take that freedom, they resist. War taught us much. Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. After the war, SHIELD was founded, and I was recruited. The new HYDRA grew; a beautiful parasite inside SHIELD. For 70 years, HYDRA has been secretly feeding crisis, reaping war, and when history did not cooperate, history was changed."

Natasha watched in horror as a series of images flickered across the screen: hordes of HYDRA officers giving the two-armed salute, soldiers fighting, planes bombing, the SHIELD and HYDRA logos intertwined, and the Winter Soldier, shooting some unsuspecting victim from a rooftop.

"That's impossible," she said. "SHIELD would have stopped you."

"Accidents will happen," said Zola, a lurch of horror going through Natasha as a picture of Nick Fury flashed up on the screen, along with a newspaper announcing the tragic deaths of Howard Stark and his wife. "HYDRA created a world so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to sacrifice its freedom to gain its security. Once the purification is complete, HYDRA's new world order will arise. We won, Captain. Your death amounts to the same as your life: a zero sum."

Natasha watched, appalled, as Zola brought up images of SHIELD's three new Helicarriers with their guns primed, pointing down at thousands of innocent people on the ground, their heads in the crosshairs.

HYDRA was alive, inside SHIELD. HYDRA intended to slaughter thousands of civilians using the new Helicarriers. It was overwhelmingly, horrifically bad. This was far worse than anything she had imagined.

Steve, apparently, had finally depleted his already-limited reserves of patience. He punched the screen which had Zola's face on it, smashing it to pieces, shards of glass falling away under his fist.

Zola reappeared on the adjacent screen.

"As I was saying–" he began.

"What's on this drive?" said Steve, cutting across Zola before he could go on another rant about HYDRA's doctrines.

Surprisingly, Zola did not seem to mind, apparently content to finally get down to business.

"Project Insight requires  _insight,_ " he said. "So, I wrote an algorithm."

"What kind of algorithm?" asked Natasha. "What does it do?"

"The answer to your question is fascinating," said Zola. "Unfortunately, you shall be too dead to hear it."

Natasha span around in horror as a set of metal doors closed in front of the lift doors. Steve flung his shield in an attempt to stop them from closing, but he was too late. The shield bounced off the doors back at Steve, who caught it.

Natasha's phone started beeping urgently in her pocket. She pulled it out, paling when she saw what was on her screen. It was an alert from an app that Tony had developed for her, alerting her to the fact that a _bomb_ was speeding towards their location.

**INCOMING MISSILE. WARNING. TIME TO IMPACT: 00:31**

A diagram was underneath the message, showing where the missile had been fired from, as well as its trajectory.

"Steve, we've got a bogey," she said. "Short range ballistic. 30 seconds tops."

"Who fired it?" said Steve.

"SHIELD."

Zola chose that moment to re-join the conversation.

"I am afraid I have been stalling, Captain," he said. "Admit it, it's better this way."

Natasha grabbed the USB stick out of the port, stuffing it inside her pocket as the beeping on her phone became faster, indicating that the missile was getting closer.

She looked around wildly for somewhere to hide. To her horror, she could see nowhere that looked as if it could provide them with adequate shelter.

Steve suddenly pointed a metal grate in the floor, sprinting over to it and ripping it up.

"We are, both of us, out of time," said Zola.

The beeping on Natasha's phone became one continuous whine. She ran towards the hole in the floor below where the grate had been, jumping down into it just as the bomb struck the building. She heard the explosion, could feel the rush of air that hit them just before debris started raining down on them.

Steve was pressed tight around her back, his arm wrapped protectively around her as he raised his shield above both their heads.

The sound of debris falling was deafening in the small confines of the hole they were couched in, the bangs and crashes echoing in the tiny space. Rocks and dust rained down, choking and bruising them.

Natasha drew her limbs in tight, hugging herself to make herself as small a target as possible. Her breathing was harsh and erratic, her mind filled with blind terror as the building collapsed down on top of them.

A lump of rock bounced off the side of the wall, striking her in the temple. Sharp pain exploded in Natasha's head, her eyes watering as she let out a gasp of pain, dust immediately filling her mouth.

Her vision swam as the sound of falling rock faded away. She frowned. She could still see shapes falling around them, so why could she not hear them?

_You are falling unconscious._

Natasha looked around blearily. That was Madame B's voice. Why was Madame B there? She was supposed to be in Russia.

_Of course I'm in Russia, you foolish girl. I am in your head. You are falling unconscious. Stop it. Cling on to something solid. Save yourself._

Ah yes, she remembered this. Madame B had once deprived her of oxygen, forcing her to cling to consciousness and learn how to cope with low oxygen environments. It made sense that her mind would conjure up the memory now, making her hallucinate and remember her training.

Using the last vestiges of her strength, she slung an arm around Steve's shoulders.

She was vaguely aware that debris had finally stopped falling down on them. They had done it. They had survived the missile strike.

Steve lurched as he hauled himself upright, his arm wrapped around Natasha as he cradled her to his chest. Natasha clung on weakly with her arm wrapped around the back of his neck, breathing weakly as he pulled them both free of the rubble.

She closed her eyes, clinging on to semi-consciousness as she felt Steve moving, her body limp as he clambered out of the bombed out building with her wrapped tight in his arms.

Natasha let out a soft sigh as they were hit by cold night air. She sucked in a lungful, thankful to finally be able to breathe fresh air.

She could hear the sound of Quinjet engines in the distance, no doubt from the very plane that had fired the missile that was meant to have killed them.

Steve obviously heard them too, because the next thing she knew, she was bumping against him rhythmically as he sprinted away at full speed. Her stomach lurched, her body instinctively a little panicked at suddenly travelling at 30mph, but she forced herself to remain calm.

It was just Steve; Steve and his serum-enhanced legs that could run faster than anyone else on the planet. It was OK. She was safe.

At some point, she must have fallen unconscious, because the next time she surfaced into awareness, she was no longer cradled against Steve's chest; she was lying on her back, the steady rumble of a car engine filling her ears.

She sat bolt upright, looking around in panic, but she was simply in the back seat of a car, a familiar blonde head in front of her in the driving seat.

Steve turned around, giving her a relieved-looking smile before turning his attention back to the road.

"Shh, it's OK," he said. "Get some sleep. I'm taking us some place safe."

Natasha slowly lay back down.

Her head hurt and she was so tired.

She would just have a nap, to recharge her batteries. Then she would offer to take over the driving from Steve; it was unfair to expect him to drive all the time.

Satisfied with her plan, she closed her eyes.

She slept for the entire journey.

 

* * *

 

Natasha woke, again, to Steve shaking her gently.

She blinked blearily, taking in the sunlight outside the car window and sitting upright slowly. She accepted the bottle of water that Steve offered and drank deeply, realising that her headache had thankfully subsided substantially overnight.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Washington DC," said Steve, giving her an apologetic grimace when she almost choked on her water. "Remember that guy I made friends with? Sam Wilson?"

Natasha nodded.

"I thought we could ask him for help."

Natasha winced. It was not that she had anything against Sam Wilson. How could she, she did not know the guy. But that was exactly it. They did not know Sam. They did not know if he would help them, hand them in to the authorities or run for the hills. Going to him for help was a complete unknown. She did not like unknowns.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Steve sighed heavily.

"I know it's not ideal," he said. "But think about it. By now, they'll have figured out that we survived the missile strike, which means they'll be looking for us. They'll no doubt have surveillance on our apartments. Maria's too, probably, seeing as they know we're friends with her. But no one knows about Sam. Sam's our safest option right now. Our only option, maybe."

Natasha considered it, before nodding reluctantly.

She could not fault Steve's logic. He was correct. Right now, Sam Wilson was their best bet.

"You know where he lives?" she asked.

Steve nodded.

"Just around the corner from here," he said. "You ready?"

Natasha chugged down the rest of her water and nodded, opening the car door and getting out, stretching her muscles and groaning slightly after her long sleep in the back seat.

Steve locked up the car and came to stand beside her, watching her carefully.

"Are you feeling OK?" he asked. "I think you banged your head pretty hard back at Camp Lehigh."

Natasha nodded, giving him a weak smile.

"I'm fine," she reassured him. "Let's go."

Steve led the way, rounding a corner and making a beeline for one of the houses. Natasha ducked her head low as she hurried alongside him, keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity.

"Natasha, I need to tell you something," said Steve, sounding hesitant.

Natasha looked across at him curiously, nodding for him to continue. Her heart sank as he sighed miserably.

"I saw who fired the missile at us at Camp Lehigh," he said. "They came to look for us in the wreckage. We only just managed to slip away. It was STRIKE Team Delta. Brock and Jack and the rest of the crew. They must be HYDRA."

Natasha swallowed convulsively around a lump in her throat. She was stunned. Brock and Jack were her teammates, her friends. They trusted one another, had saved one another's lives on countless STRIKE Team Delta missions.

Their betrayal stung, raw and difficult to process.

Natasha nodded, not daring to speak, flattening down her emotions and instead just focusing on checking that they were not being followed.

They drew level with Sam's house, climbing up onto the porch and knocking on the front door. Natasha looked at Steve, wincing internally when she saw how tired and grimy he looked. No doubt she looked just as bad.

Before they could do anything to spruce up their appearances, however, the front door opened, revealing Sam who, to his credit, only looked slightly alarmed at the sight of them.

"Hey, man," he said to Steve, who was standing slightly in front.

Steve grimaced apologetically.

"I'm sorry about this," he said. "We need a place to lay low."

"Everyone we know is trying to kill us," blurted out Natasha, before she could stop herself.

She cursed internally. Sam was going to run away, or slam the door in their faces, or call the police, or–

"Not everyone," said Sam firmly, pulling his front door fully open to allow them to enter.

Natasha stared at him, resisting the urge to wrap him up in a bone-crushing hug and instead simply following Steve inside. Sam closed and locked the door behind them, pulling down the blinds to hide them from any nosy passers-by.

"Were you followed?" asked Sam, looking slightly nervous.

Natasha shook her head.

"I'm pretty sure we weren't," she said. "I kept an eye out on the way here."

Sam nodded, looking relieved.

"Good," he said. "Um, do you guys want to have a shower? No offence, but you kind of smell."

They laughed, all the tension instantly dissipating from the room.

"That sounds great, Sam," said Steve. "Do you have towels we can borrow?"

Sam grinned, walking over to a linen closet and pulling out two large towels.

"Follow me," he said, tossing the towels in their direction and leading the way down the hall into what looked like his bedroom. "There's a shower in the en suite. Take as long as you want."

He gave them a warm smile before closing the bedroom door to give them some privacy. Natasha listened as his footsteps receded down the hall, a smile on her lips. She liked Sam, she decided.

"Ladies first," said Steve, gesturing to the door that led to Sam's en suite bathroom.

Natasha gave him a grateful smile before crossing Sam's bedroom and slipping into the en suite. She switched on the light and locked the door behind her, breathing a sigh of relief as she finally peeled off her clothes.

They felt stiff, as if she had sweated profusely and they had dried while she was wearing them. On second thoughts, that was almost certainly what had happened.

Stepping into the shower, she turned it on, closing her eyes against the spray and letting out a long exhale as the hot water pounded against her skin. 

After enjoying the feeling of the hot water massaging her tired muscles, she rubbed the grime from her body, slightly alarmed that the water that ran off her was actually grey.

After several more minutes of rubbing soap all over herself, however, the water was finally running away clear.

Next, she concentrated on washing her hair –  _God_ , it felt good to wash away all the dust and grease – before finally stepping out of the shower, feeling rejuvenated.

She pulled on her clothes, before exiting Sam's en suite and flopping down on his bed. Steve chuckled gently, giving her nose an affectionate flick, before disappearing into the en suite himself.

Natasha waited until she heard the shower turn on again before opening her eyes with a sigh. She had to call Maria.

She leaned over the bed, picking up Sam's landline and inputting Maria's mobile number. She did not dare turn her own mobile phone on. No doubt SHIELD would trace it as soon as she did so. She needed to dispose of it, really. Now.

She pulled out her mobile phone, digging out the SIM card and snapping it in half as she waited for Maria to answer. She did so after the eighth ring.

"Hello?" she asked, not recognising Sam's number, obviously.

"Maria, it's me," she said quietly.

She heard Maria give a quick intake of breath, before a series of loud automated beeps suddenly sounded, forcing her to hold the phone an inch or so away from her ear.

"Natasha?" said Maria. "Are you still there? I just transferred this call onto an encrypted line. No one can listen in now."

Natasha let out a sigh of relief, supremely thankful for Maria's sharp intelligence.

"I love you, you know that, right?" she said. "Your brain is the best."

Maria cut across her rambling before she could say anything else embarrassing.

"What's going on?" she said. "Are you with Steve? SHIELD put out a warrant to arrest Steve yesterday morning and a warrant for  _your_ arrest yesterday evening. SHIELD says you guys are involved in Nick's murder, but I call bullshit."

Natasha closed her eyes, blinking away tears as she tried to prepare herself for what she said next.

"HYDRA is inside SHIELD," she said. "They've been growing inside SHIELD ever since World War II. Most of STRIKE Team Delta are HYDRA operatives.  _Brock_ is HYDRA, Maria. I'm so, so sorry."

There was a pained silence on the other end of the phone as Maria absorbed the news. Natasha could not imagine how she must feel. Maria had joined SHIELD straight out of university. She had devoted her entire professional life to SHIELD. SHIELD was part of her blood.

"Brock?" said Maria, finally. "Are you sure?"

Natasha sighed, brushing away several stray tears that had leaked down her cheeks.

"Yeah," she said. "Last night, a SHIELD Quinjet fired a missile at where Steve and I were. I banged my head so was pretty out of it, but Steve says it was STRIKE Team Delta. He saw them."

Maria swore suddenly, the sound of something smashing carrying through the telephone.

"That bastard!" she said, sounding disgusted. "He came to my place last night, looked pretty tired and grimy. Asked if I'd heard anything from you or Steve. I let that bastard sleep in my  _bed_."

Natasha winced. Brock's betrayal hurt her and they had only been teammates. She could not imagine how difficult this must be for Maria, when she and Brock had been so much more than just work friends.

"We think HYDRA are going to kill innocent civilians using the three new Project Insight Helicarriers," continued Natasha. "We've got to stop that from happening."

She heard Maria suck in a breath on the other end of the line.

"OK," said Maria. "We'll do this. We've saved the world from aliens before. We can handle some dickweeds of the human variety."

Natasha grinned, feeling buoyed by Maria's words as she hung up the phone. She started to dry her hair, getting lost in her thoughts as she rubbed her towel through her red curls.

The door of the en suite opened, revealing Steve dressed in just jeans and a vest.

He looked at the faraway expression on Natasha's face and frowned.

"You OK?" he asked.

"Yeah," lied Natasha.

Steve did not believe her, apparently, as he sat down on the bed a short distance away from her and looked at her, his eyes filled with sympathy.

"What's going on?" he said gently.

Natasha sighed, letting the towel fall from her hands onto the bed. She pursed her lips together, tasting bitterness and regret on her tongue as she reflected on the sum of the life since she left the KGB.

"When I first joined SHIELD, I thought I was going straight," she said. "But I guess I just traded in the KGB for HYDRA. I thought I knew whose lies I was telling, but I guess I can't tell the difference anymore."

Steve nodded along, his eyes calm and clear as he listened to her.

"There's a chance you might be in the wrong business," he said, his lips twitching into a small smile.

Natasha laughed softly, amazed by his ability to make her feel better with one little sentence. She remembered being held in his arms after the missile strike, remembered how he had cradled her to his chest, protecting her, as he whisked them off to safety.

He had saved her life.

She may not be able to trust SHIELD anymore, but she could still trust Steve.

"I owe you," she said quietly.

Steve shook his head immediately, brushing away the idea.

"It's OK," he reassured her.

Natasha bit her lip, unable to tear herself away from that particular train of thought.

Trust was important.

Right now, it was all they had.

"If it was the other way around," she said. "And it was down to me to save your life, now you be honest with me, would you trust me to do it?"

Steve's reply was immediate.

"I would," he said. "You  _did_ save my life. That first year after I woke from the ice; I think I might have killed myself if I hadn't had you there to help me adjust to the new world. And I'm always honest."

Natasha stared at him in amazement as he smiled at her. She had had no idea that he had come so close to committing suicide. The thought made her want to cry.

"Well," she said. "You seem pretty chipper for someone who just found out they went into the ice for nothing."

Steve shrugged.

"I guess I just like to know who I'm fighting," he said.

Before Natasha could reply, the bedroom door opened to reveal Sam, who leaned against the doorframe as he stuck his head into the room.

"I made breakfast, if you guys eat that sort of thing," he said.

Natasha giggled, tossing her towel at Sam, who caught it deftly, giving her a wink.

She got to her feet, following Sam out of the bedroom towards the kitchen, with Steve padding softly behind her.

"Well, I gotta say, you guys smell a lot better," said Sam, giving them both a cheeky grin as they entered the kitchen.

"Thanks," said Steve drily.

Sam gestured for them to sit at the table, where he had already placed two stacks of pancakes and a large carton of orange juice. He walked over to the hob, where he got on with the task of making his own pancakes.

"Dig in," said Sam. "Use as much maple syrup as you want. Sorry I don't have any more exciting toppings."

Natasha and Steve sat down at the kitchen table, immediately digging into their food.

Natasha moaned obscenely around her first mouthful, closing her eyes to savour to explosion of flavour on her tongue. It was delicious.

When she opened her eyes, Sam was staring at in disbelief.

"Damn, girl," he teased. "I'm going to whip up some pancakes for  _dinner_ next time I have a lady friend around, if they get that kind of reaction."

Natasha flipped her middle finger at him, causing him to laugh with delight as he turned back to making his own pancakes.

"We need to get our heads around what's going on," said Steve, who had somehow already finished his own pancakes and was looking longingly at her pile. Natasha slid one of her pancakes onto his plate, making him grin excitedly. "So, HYDRA is inside SHIELD. But how widespread are they? And how far up the chain of command do they go?"

Natasha drank some orange juice as she considered it.

"From what Zola said, it sounds like HYDRA is pretty entrenched inside SHIELD," she said. "As for who their leader is, I don't know. Someone with enough power to influence Project Insight and to see Nick Fury as a potential threat."

"And to order STRIKE to launch that missile at us at Camp Lehigh," said Steve.

Natasha nodded.

"Right," she said. "So the question is, who at SHIELD could launch a domestic missile strike?"

Steve considered it for a moment, his eyes widening in horror.

"Pierce," he said.

Natasha closed her eyes. Alexander Pierce was a member of the World Security Council. He had serious power.

Suddenly, she remembered something that Maria had said several weeks ago, at their Friday evening cocktail party.

_Brock and Jack have gone to Russia with a member of the World Security Council – Alexander Pierce, I think. Brock's not said what it's about, so I guess it's some kind of secret mission._

Russia. They must have been meeting the Winter Soldier.

Everything was falling into place, in the most horrifying way.

"Pierce. Who happens to be sitting on top of the most secure building in the world," she muttered.

Steve nodded grimly.

"But he's not working alone," he said. "Zola's algorithm was on the Lemurian Star."

Natasha cast her mind back, trying to remember what Brock had said about the hostages on board the Lemurian Star. He had said it was mainly tech crew, along with one officer...

"So was Jasper Sitwell," she said.

Steve sighed.

"So," he said. "The real question is, how do the two most wanted people in Washington kidnap a SHIELD officer in broad daylight?"

Sam stepped forward from the kitchen counter, where he had been eating his pancakes in silence as he listened to their conversation. He pulled out a folder, walking over to them and dumping it on the kitchen table.

"The answer is, you don't," he said.

"What's this?" said Steve, picking up the folder and opening it up.

"Call it a résumé," said Sam.

Natasha and Steve leaned in to flick through the folder together. It contained photographs of Sam wearing military fatigues, alongside carefully printed notes outlining various missions he had completed.

One photograph in particular caught Natasha's eye. It showed the unmistakable backdrop of the Afghan mountains, the air filled with dust particles.

"Is this Bakhmala? The Khalid Khandil mission. That was you?" she asked Sam, before turning to Steve. "You didn't say he was a Pararescue."

Steve flipped over to the next photograph, which showed Sam stood next to a white man with light brown hair and a gentle smile.

"Is this Riley?" Steve asked softly.

"Yeah," said Sam.

Natasha frowned, trying to remember everything she could about the Khalid Khandil mission.

"I heard they couldn't bring in the choppers because of the RPGs," she said. "What did you use? A stealth chute?"

Sam smiled as he shook his head.

"No," he said, tossing down another folder onto the kitchen table. "These."

Steve opened it, his eyes widening as he stared at the photograph. It showed Sam wearing what looked like a pair of mechanical bird wings on his back. Several other photographs showed Sam in flight, swooping and soaring with the agility of a bird of prey. A separate sheet of paper revealed that the wings were code named Falcon.

"I thought you said you were a pilot," said Steve, when he finally tore his eyes away from the pictures in amazement.

Sam chuckled.

"I never said pilot," he said.

Steve sighed, shaking his head ruefully.

"I can't ask you to do this, Sam," he said. "You got out for a good reason."

Sam glared back stubbornly.

"Dude," he said. "Captain America needs my help. There's no better reason to get back in."

After a moment of silent deliberation, Steve broke out into a wide grin.

"Where can we get our hands on one of these things?" he asked.

"The last one is at Fort Meade," said Sam. "Behind three guarded gates and a 12-inch steel wall."

Steve glanced over at Natasha, who shrugged. She had broken through much tougher security before. Fort Meade should be easy.

"Shouldn't be a problem," said Steve.

 

* * *

 

Breaking into Fort Meade and stealing the Falcon wings was not a problem.

Neither was locating Jasper Sitwell, as he had a weekly engagement with a senator that always took place in the same swanky hotel.

They used Sam's car to travel to the hotel. He had pointed out, correctly, that the car that Steve had stolen from the shopping mall car park would almost certainly have been reported to the police by now.

They decided that Sam should actually be the one to talk to Jasper, seeing as he would instantly recognise Steve or Natasha if he saw them.

With his anonymous face and his non-stolen car, Natasha found herself glad that Sam was on their team. He was proving to be extremely useful.

Natasha sat alone in Sam's car, her hands gripping the steering wheel, waiting. She was parked just around the corner from the hotel, two spaces down.

Both Sam and Steve were working together to get Jasper into the car: Steve by hiding and pointing the laser of a rifle at Jasper's chest, and Sam by talking to Jasper over the phone, telling him that Steve would pull the trigger unless Jasper followed his instructions.

It was a risky plan. If Jasper was killed, he was useless. They needed him alive to get intel, but they had to threaten him convincingly enough that he would be genuinely scared. Only then would they talk. Natasha hoped he was not the type of HYDRA agent who would crunch down on a cyanide tablet the moment he saw the red dot of the laser on his chest.

Just as she was pondering this, a familiar figure rounded the corner.

Jasper was dressed in a smart suit, his black-rimmed glasses framing his eyes, which narrowed as his gaze fell upon Natasha. He glowered as he threw open the car door, shooting her a filthy look as he slid into the seat next to her.

"Bitch," he muttered, buckling his seat belt.

Natasha smiled, pulling the car out and joining the traffic to go a few blocks down to where an entire building was empty for renovations.

"Remember my name," she said. "You'll be screaming it later."

Jasper paled, obviously unsettled by Natasha's sinister use of the usually flirtatious phrase.

Intelligently, he kept his mouth shut after that, sitting in tense silence as Natasha parked the car and waited. They did not have to wait for long. Steve appeared from around the corner around a minute later.

Natasha unlocked the car doors.

"Don't run," she warned Jasper. "Don't yell. Go into the building with me and Steve. If you try anything, I'll kill you."

Jasper nodded nervously, all too aware that Natasha was more than capable of following through on her promise.

They exited the car, Jasper obediently walking over to where Steve was waiting for them on the pavement.

"Is Sam ready and in position?" asked Natasha.

"Yeah," said Steve.

Natasha nodded curtly, heading towards the building entrance. She pushed open the door, walking inside with Jasper close behind her, Steve bringing up the rear.

She led the way to a side staircase, her hand tapping on the banister as they started to walk up the steps.

"What's going on?" asked Jasper. "Where are we going?"

Natasha did not turn around, knowing from the sound of their footsteps exactly where they were behind her.

"The roof," she said.

Jasper swallowed audibly, but did not make further comment.

The rest of the trek up the twenty flights of stairs took place in silence, Jasper's laboured breathing the only thing marring the quiet.

They reached the top of the stairs at last, Natasha pushing firmly against the fire exit and shoving open the door that led out onto the roof.

Before Jasper could say anything, Steve kicked him hard in the back, sending him flying across the rooftop.

"Tell me about Zola's algorithm," said Steve, his usually warm tone suddenly cold and hard.

Jasper struggled to his feet, grabbing his glasses from where they had fallen when Steve had kicked him and shoving them back on his face.

"I've never heard of it," he said.

"What were you doing on the Lemurian Star?" asked Steve.

Jasper glanced between the two of them nervously as they stalked towards him.

"I was throwing up," he said. "I get seasick."

Natasha frowned. Jasper was not scared enough. They needed to get him more riled up before they had a chance of making him talk.

They walked towards him slowly, trying to look as menacing and sinister as possible as they crowded him against the edge of the building. He backed up against the edge, tripping and for a heart-stopping moment Natasha was sure he was going to fall.

Steve's hand shot out just in time, however, grabbing Jasper by the suit jacket and saving him from plunging to his death.

At the action, something like triumph flared in Jasper's eyes.

"Is this little display meant to insinuate that you're going to throw me off the roof?" sneered Jasper. "Because it's really not your style, Rogers."

Steve sighed, brushing down the front of Jasper's suit.

"You're right, it's not," he admitted. "It's hers."

Steve suddenly stepped aside, clearing the way for Natasha to step forward and kick Jasper hard in the chest.

A spurt of vicious satisfaction went through her as Jasper screamed, his eyes wide with terror as he plunged off the edge of the building.

His fading yell was still audible when she turned to Steve.

"Oh wait," she said. "What about that girl from accounting? Laura?"

Steve huffed out a laugh, seemingly as amused as he was amazed that Natasha still wanted to set him up on a date even in the middle of a crisis.

"Lilian," he corrected. "Lip piercing, right?"

Natasha nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "She's cute."

"Yeah, I'm not ready for that," said Steve.

The return of Jasper's screaming put an end to their conversation. Natasha turned just in time to see Sam flying up onto the roof, looking magnificent with his Falcon wings, Jasper dangling below him like a piece of prey.

Sam let go of Jasper, sending him crashing back down on the rooftop, before landing gracefully, the wings seeming like an extension to his body rather than a separate part.

"Zola's algorithm is a program for choosing Insight's targets!" blabbered Jasper, tears of terror in his eyes as he stared up at the three of them.

"What targets?" asked Steve.

"You!" said Jasper, gesturing wildly at Steve. "A TV anchor in Cairo! The Under Secretary of Defence! A high school valedictorian in Iowa City! Bruce Banner, Stephen Strange; anyone who's a threat to HYDRA now or in the future!"

Steve frowned, cocking his head to the side.

"In the future?" he said. "How could it know?"

Jasper laughed; a high-pitched, hysterical sound.

"How could it not?" he said. "The 21st century is a digital book. Zola taught HYDRA how to read it. Your bank records, medical histories, voting patterns, emails, phone calls, your damn SAT scores! Zola's algorithm evaluates people's past to predict their future."

Natasha felt horror welling up inside her.

"And what then?" asked Steve.

Jasper suddenly stilled, a look of horrified realisation dawning on his face.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "Pierce is going to kill me."

"What then?" demanded Steve, taking a step towards him.

Jasper turned to look at them, his wide, panicked eyes flicking over them one at a time.

"Then the Insight Helicarriers scratch people off the list," he said. "A few million at a time."

 

* * *

 

The drive back to Washington DC was a long one.

The air was thick with tension, Jasper's terrible confession about the truth regarding Project Insight laying heavy on all their minds.

Sam was driving remarkably calmly, Steve sitting a little more rigidly in the front passenger seat. Natasha was in the back seat, alongside Jasper, which she was not thrilled about, but she had the sense not to complain about it.

There were more important things to worry about, like how they were going to stop Project Insight.

"HYDRA doesn't like leaks," said Jasper suddenly, breaking the silence for the first time in over an hour.

"Then why don't you try sticking a cork in it?" snapped Sam.

Natasha glanced nervously at her watch.

"Insight's launching in 16 hours," she said. "We're cutting it a little bit close here."

"I know," said Steve. "We'll use Jasper to bypass the DNA scans and access the Helicarriers directly."

Jasper visibly flinched at Steve's suggestion.

"What?" he said, looking appalled. "Are you crazy? That is a terrible,  _terrible_ idea."

Natasha was about to interject with the various pros and cons of Steve's plan, but before she could speak, a loud thud suddenly sounded from the roof.

She looked up in alarm, because it sounded as though something heavy had just landed on  _top_ of them, but before she could formulate any kind of coherent thought, the glass of the window next to Jasper shattered.

Natasha watched, stunned, as Jasper was grabbed by the neck and hauled out of the car window, being flung in the path of an oncoming truck as if he were a rag doll.

A sickening thud and splat sounded as Jasper was hit and instantly killed by the truck.

A wave of panic washed over Natasha. There was only one person who had the skill and the strength to pull off a stunt like this. Horror and bloodshed were his calling card.

The Winter Soldier.

She was instantly brought back to the present by the sound of the Winter Soldier moving around on top of the car. From the sounds of his shuffling boots, she calculated that he was moving across to her side of the car, coming to a stop directly above her.

She unbuckled her seat belt, scrambling out of her seat and hurling herself into the front of the car, onto Steve's lap, just as two bullets came down through the roof, puncturing the seat where she had been sat just moments before.

Steve grabbed the hand brake, yanking it upwards. The car screeched to a halt.

The Winter Soldier was thrown from the roof of the car, flying forwards at the same velocity that the car had been travelling at just moments before.

Natasha watched, almost hypnotised with horror, as he landed on the highway, his metal hand reaching out and grabbing on to the tarmac. Sparks flew as he brought himself to a stop, his metal hand carving deep grooves into the surface of the road.

He stood up slowly, pulling himself up to his full height in a display of almost machine-like resilience.

Natasha felt sick, her heart battering the inside of her rib cage as she finally stared at the Winter Soldier. He was wearing the exact same clothes as he had in Odessa, all black leather with guns and knives attached, his left arm metal and glinting in the sun.

To see him again was surreal, like waking up from a nightmare only to find that it had been real. The only thing that was different about him was that he had a mask and goggles covering most of his face.

Time seemed to slow. Natasha stared into his black goggles, imagining his intense blue eyes staring back at her. She wondered what he was thinking. He simply stood there, facing them as they skidded towards him, cars whizzing past in the other lanes. It was a surreal, almost cinematic scene.

_Crash!_

A car smashed into the back of them, jolting Natasha violently and causing her to drop her gun onto the floor. She twisted around in worry to look at the car that had crashed into them, her initial reaction being that an innocent driver must have had a lapse in concentration and not seen their sudden braking manoeuvre in time to avoid them.

Her assumption was quickly dispelled, however, when the other car continued to drive, shunting them forwards aggressively. Her heart sank. It was HYDRA.

She heard Steve's gasp and whipped around to face the front, just in time to see the Winter Soldier jumping back up onto their roof, a heavy thud sounding above them as his weight slammed down on top of the car.

Sam hit the brakes, causing the car to skid once more, tyres squealing.

Natasha leaned forward as far as she could, her movements hampered by the dashboard, her hand groping about on the floor as she felt desperately for her gun. She came across a newspaper, a piece of what felt like Lego, an old sweet wrapper and then,  _finally_ , the smooth metal of her trusty pistol.

Her fingers wrapped around the handle just as the metal hand of the Winter Soldier punched through the windscreen, grabbing hold of the steering wheel and literally ripping it out of the car.

"Shit!" shouted Sam.

Natasha sat up, bringing up her right arm and firing three shots through the car roof, up at where the Winter Soldier should logically be positioned.

It seemed that her aim was off, however, as instead of falling off the car dead or injured, the Winter Soldier simply leapt onto the car behind in order to avoid the bullets.

Sam put his foot down on the accelerator, unable to steer due to the fact the wheel had been torn out of the car, but still able to control their speed.

Natasha gritted her teeth, trying hard to push away the feeling of panic as they sped down the highway. An involuntary gasp escaped her as the car smashed into the from behind once more, sending them careering towards the edge of the highway and slamming into the concrete wall.

Natasha glanced sideways, before turning away, immediately wishing she had not. They were on a bridge, with a substantial drop awaiting them if the concrete barrier gave way and sent them tumbling over the edge.

Steve grabbed hold of his shield before reaching out to grab hold of both Natasha and Sam.

"Hang on!" said Steve.

Natasha clung on to Steve as the car flipped over, the vehicle spinning high into the air from the force of the car ramming into them from behind combined with the angle of the concrete wall.

Her stomach lurched as they tipped over crazily in the air, the sensation similar to being on a rollercoaster except worse because this was real.

Steve catapulted them out of the car as it span in the air, using his strength to forcibly detach the car door from its hinges. They fell back down to Earth with a painful thud, skidding along the highway tarmac on the car door as if it were a sled.

Natasha tucked her limbs close to her body, clinging tightly onto Steve, her body vibrating madly as they skidded down the road. At some point, Sam must have slipped from Steve's grasp, because suddenly he was no longer with them, rolling across the tarmac as Steve and Natasha slid further away on the car door-come-sled.

Finally, they came to a halt. Natasha staggered to her feet, her legs feeling slightly wobbly after the bone-shaking ride. Steve jumped to his feet beside her, giving her a worried-looking glance. Natasha nodded to indicate that she was OK, before turning her attention back to their assailants.

Visibility on the highway was poor, her view obscured by a thick haze of dust and smoke. Her eyes watered against the pollutants, picking out vague shapes moving towards them. A gentle gust of wind cleared the haze for a moment, revealing a sight that caused Natasha's breath to catch in her throat.

The Winter Soldier was being handed a rocket-propelled grenade launcher by one of the men from the car that had rammed them. He heaved it up onto his shoulder, before suddenly pointing it straight at Natasha.

Natasha did not have time to react before his finger was curling around the firing mechanism, a tendril of fire erupting from the back of the weapon as he fired a grenade straight at her.

Steve was at her side instantly, knocking her out of the way as he stood in her place, raising his shield in front of him. The rocket-propelled grenade hit the shield with force, exploding and throwing Steve off the edge of the bridge and onto the road that ran below.

Natasha did not have time to check if he was OK before she found herself coming under gunfire from the Winter Soldier and multiple HYDRA agents.

She sprinted for cover behind a nearby abandoned car, pulling out her gun and firing off shots as she ran, grunting with satisfaction when one of her bullets hit its mark. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam hiding behind another car, shooting at the HYDRA agents whenever he got a clear shot.

She continued to run, gesturing for Sam to follow her as the Winter Soldier and the HYDRA agents approached their position.

They kept low, sticking behind the rows of abandoned cars and shooting back sporadically.

Natasha ducked and weaved as she ran, trying to make her course as unpredictable as possible, as it seemed that the ambushers were trying especially hard to kill  _her_.

She leapt over the concrete wall that separated the two halves of the highway, having to roll and jump to avoid oncoming traffic. She huffed out a pained breath as she narrowly avoided a speeding car, noting that the gunfire following her was not showing any signs of abating.

Reaching down to briefly stow her gun in its holster, she reached for another piece of equipment she had had the foresight to strap to her belt: a hook and cord similar to the one that Clint had used when he had rescued her from Ernesto Silva's compound in Sao Paulo.

Steeling her nerves, she gripped the end of the cord tightly, sprinting as fast as she could towards the edge of the bridge. Stamping down her panic, she gathered her legs underneath her and leapt over the concrete wall, seeming to hang in the air for a split second before beginning her inevitable fall off the edge of the bridge.

She twisted herself around in the air, seeing the Winter Soldier facing her for a single moment before she hurtled downwards, out of his line of sight. She pointed the hook towards the underside of the bridge, pressing a button that released a high-pressure mechanism that fired the hook at around 60mph, embedding itself in the concrete.

The wire cord reeled out after it, the end that was not embedded in the bridge held tightly in Natasha's hands. She braced herself, gripping the wire tightly as she swung down safely onto the road below.

She hit the road running, immediately grabbing her gun as she ran underneath the bridge, her breath coming out in sharp bursts. She emerged on the other side of the bridge, looking up to see the Winter Soldier aiming a machine gun at a bus that had somehow tipped onto its side around 50 yards away.

There were civilians in that bus.

Without thinking, Natasha brought her gun up, squeezing her finger around the trigger and shooting the Winter Soldier.

He disappeared instantly behind the concrete wall.

Natasha sprinted in the direction of a large truck, tucking herself behind it and peeking up at the highway, searching for any sign of the Winter Soldier. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest. Had she done it? Had she killed him?

Her question was answered when the Winter Soldier re-emerged, minus his goggles, spraying bullets down onto the road where she had been.

She gritted her teeth angrily. She had just managed to shoot his goggles, it seemed. Slotting another magazine into her gun, she fired another shot at him, missing but instantly drawing his attention.

They exchanged shots, Natasha having to duck behind the truck each time the gunfire got too intense. She wiped sweat from her brow as she ran out of bullets once more. How she had managed not to get killed so far was a miracle.

She had to move, she realised. If she stayed where she was, she was a sitting target.

Taking a deep breath, she waited for a pause in the gunfire before flinging herself across the road to the opposite pavement, using the row of parked cars at its curb as cover as she sprinted away from the highway.

Her feet pounded the stone pavement as she ran, the weight in her chest feeling lighter as she successfully put more and more distance between her and the shooters.

Finally, she reached a corner, throwing herself around it to safety. She bent forwards, panting hard as she regained her breath, her mind racing. She forced herself to concentrate, to come up with a plan.

Closing her eyes, she focused on the facts.

She did not know where Steve and Sam were. She did not even know if they were still alive. The only thing she knew about the current situation was that the Winter Soldier was here, endangering her life and the lives of innocent civilians.

She had to stop him.

Her eyes snapped open as she accepted her objective, her hand digging into her pocket to dig out yet another piece of tech that she had decided to bring. She found herself extremely thankful for her tendency to over-plan; right now, it was saving her life.

She pulled out a voice recorder, spouting nonsense as she stalked around for a good place to plant her bait. Eventually, she found an ideal location: a quiet road (most of the people in the nearby vicinity had had the sense to run away at the sound of gunfire from the highway) with a tree nearby that she could hide behind.

She pressed a few buttons on the audio device, setting it to play her voice in a loop, and placed it underneath a parked car. She ducked behind the tree, keeping a sharp eye and ear out for the Winter Soldier, and waited.

She did not have to wait long. His arrival was announced by the sound of screaming civilians as they ran away from him, reasonably terrified by his leather get up, metal arm and arsenal of weapons.

Natasha peered around the edge of the tree, smiling with triumph as he fell for her trap, stalking towards the car underneath which her audio device was hidden. She watched as he pulled out a small metal ball from his belt – a grenade – pulling out its pin and rolling it underneath the car towards the audio device where he presumed she was situated.

She put her fingers in her ears, ducking behind the tree and turning away as the grenade exploded. The blast sent a shock wave of air rippling past her.

Immediately, Natasha emerged from behind the tree, seeing the Winter Soldier with his back to her, looking at where the grenade had exploded.

Natasha ran and leapt up onto his shoulders, pulling out and wrapping a cord around his neck. She yanked hard at the cord, trying to tighten it and cut off his air supply.

The Winter Soldier placed his metal hand between the cord and his neck, running backwards and slamming her against a parked car. Natasha gasped as the wind was knocked out of her. Before she could react, the Winter Soldier used his purchase to grab hold of her legs and throw her off him.

Natasha hit the road with a painful thud, looking up to see him picking up his gun, which he had dropped when she had ambushed him. Scrambling to her feet, she threw a mini-EMP at his left arm.

The metal prosthetic was instantly affected, malfunctioning and jittering as the EMP sent its electric components into haywire.

With the Winter Soldier disabled, she ran away onto a nearby street, desperate to find Steve and Sam and regroup. Crowds of panicked civilians were running and screaming in fright. She stared at them helplessly. She was one woman; she could not help all of them.

"Get out of the way!" she shouted, as she ran through them. "Stay out of the way!"

_Bang!_

The pain was instantaneous.

She collapsed to the ground, leaning heavily against a car as her hand went reflexively to her shoulder, blood seeping out of the bullet wound that was there.

She turned her head to look over the bonnet of the car, her eyes widening in horror as she saw the Winter Soldier raise his gun towards her, his finger wrapped around the trigger, ready to take the final, fatal shot.

She giggled hysterically.

This was it.

This was how her life ended: at the hands of a metal-armed, amnesic psychopath who she had first encountered aged 16 in her teacher's bedroom. How was this even her life?

She closed her eyes, ready to take the final bullet, but the sound of the final gunshot never came.

Instead, she heard the sound of running footsteps, followed by a thud and a grunt.

Natasha opened her eyes, almost crying with relief when she saw Steve, alive and apparently unharmed, fighting a vicious hand-to-hand battle with the Winter Soldier.

Natasha crawled out from behind the car, feeling significantly weakened and lightheaded due to the hole in her shoulder. She groaned, the sound barely audible as her ears filled with dull ringing. She shook her head, trying to get rid of the sound, but the motion only made it worse. She closed her eyes briefly, concern flicking vaguely across her mind when she opened them again to find herself suffering from tunnel vision.

_Concentrate._

Ahead of her, lying abandoned in the road where he must have dropped it, was the Winter Soldier's rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

Natasha took a deep breath, dragging herself on her hands and knees towards the weapon. Her movements were frustratingly slow, her body trying to shut itself down so that it could deal with the bullet hole in her shoulder.

It was so close. Two metres away.

She slipped over onto her side. She could hear her heart beat in her ears, her pulse weak and erratic as her heart struggled to compensate for the blood loss. Her vision blurred.

She drew in a deep, rattling breath, forcing herself to remember what was at stake: Steve, Sam, millions of innocent people who would be wiped out by the Project Insight Helicarriers if she did not buck up and do her duty.

Forcing herself back onto her hands and knees, she crawled the final few metres to the rocket-propelled grenade launcher, wrapping her hands around it as she lifted it up to her shoulder, before struggling to her feet.

She turned around to where Steve and the Winter Soldier were fighting, swaying slightly due to blood loss.

She blinked in confusion.

Steve and the Winter Soldier were no longer fighting. The Winter Soldier's mask had come off and Steve was staring at him, a stunned, haunted expression on his features. He was saying something, but they were too far away for her to hear him, and the ringing in her ears was too loud even so.

She whimpered as the Winter Soldier raised his gun, pointing it straight at Steve's chest. Her hands fumbled with the rocket-propelled grenade launcher, her fingers rubbery and slow.

Sam swooped down out of nowhere, borne aloft by his mechanical wings as he swung his legs forward, kicking the Winter Soldier over before he could fire at Steve.

Natasha wrapped her finger around the launching mechanism, pointing it at the Winter Soldier and firing the rocket-propelled grenade just as he got back up and pointed his gun at Steve once more.

The grenade exploded in mid-flight, kicking up a huge plume of smoke and dust.

Her eyes watered, her legs giving way underneath her as she watched the smoke slowly clear.

He was gone.

A ball of fright settled in the pit of her stomach as she looked around frantically. Somehow, the Winter Soldier had disappeared. He had escaped.

Her thoughts were interrupted by sirens, dozens of them, all converging on their position. She groaned softly, tasting blood and remembering about her gunshot wound, pressing her hand against it and instantly feeling lightheaded.

SHIELD emergency response vans hurtled to a stop around them, STRIKE Teams pouring out and surrounding them, shouting instructions that she could barely make out.

She recognised Brock and Jack as they jumped out of one of the closest vans, her gut bubbling with anger and betrayal as she watched them turn their weapons on her.

They had been her teammates. They had been her friends. She had trusted them.

"Drop the shield, Cap!" shouted Brock. "Get on your knees! Get down, get down! Get on your knees!"

A SHIELD agent rushed over to Natasha, grabbing her by the wrists and pinning them behind her back. She protested weakly as she was bundled into the back of a van, finding only minor relief in the fact that Steve and Sam were being put in the same one.

The van doors slammed shut behind her, leaving her with Steve, Sam and two STRIKE team members who were wearing helmets.

The taller one pushed her roughly down into her seat. The sudden force sent pain flaring through her bullet wound.

She gasped, her vision hazing out as the pain burned white hot.

She passed out within seconds.

 

* * *

 

Natasha woke a short while later.

She could tell by the swaying and the vibrations that the van was on the move, her hypothesis being confirmed when she opened her eyes.

Steve looked up when she moaned softly, his face a mixture of shock and devastation.

"I know the Winter Soldier," he said numbly. "He's  _Bucky_. It was him. He looked right at me like he didn't even know me."

Bucky? Steve's best friend from his own time? Natasha shook her head slowly. It could not be.

"How is that even possible?" asked Sam. "It was, like, 70 years ago."

Steve sighed heavily.

"Zola," he said. "Bucky's whole unit was captured in 1943. Zola experimented on him. Whatever he did helped Bucky survive the fall. They must have found him and..."

He broke off, choking on a sob and lowering his head, hiding his face from the others.

"I met him when I was 16," said Natasha. "And again in Odessa, years later. He hadn't aged a day."

Steve frowned.

"You never mentioned that you'd met him before Odessa," he said.

Natasha closed her eyes, trembling slightly as she remembered the horror of their first encounter. It was something she still occasionally had nightmares about. She took a deep breath, forcing her mind to marble as she reluctantly pushed the memories to be forefront of her mind.

"When we reached 16 years old, the Red Room Academy gave us lessons in seduction," she said quietly. "The Winter Soldier was sent there to rape us."

Steve shook his head, horrified.

"Bucky would never do that!" he said hotly.

"He  _did_ ," said Natasha. "To all of my classmates. But not to me. Something happened. I started talking about my friend James and it was like the Winter Soldier woke up. He turned into this different guy. He refused to rape me and helped me trick my teacher instead."

"Bucky's real name is James," whispered Steve. "Bucky is just a nickname. His full name is James Buchanan Barnes."

Natasha was silent for a moment, thinking about all the frighteningly unlikely coincidences that had to have taken place in order for this to occur: James the pig farmer having an English mother who decided to give her son an English name. Said mother unknowingly choosing the very same name as the man who would go on to attempt to rape her.

"That means that Bucky is still in there," she said. "They're repressing his memory somehow, but he's in there. Underneath all the brainwashing, it's still him."

"I'm so sorry," said Steve suddenly, his eyes shining with tears. "What the Winter Soldier did to your classmates... It's on me; I should have saved him back in World War II. None of this would have happened if I'd just–"

"None of that's your fault, Steve," said Natasha, cutting him off.

Steve's face crumpled.

"Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky," he said.

Natasha shifted, turning slightly towards him in an attempt to appease him, but the movement caused her shoulder to flare once again with pain. She groaned softly, closing her eyes for a moment as she waited for the pain to subside.

"We need to get a doctor here," said Sam, sounding concerned as he addressed the two STRIKE agents. "If we don't put pressure on that wound, she's going to bleed out here in the truck."

One of the agents pulled out an electroshock stick, similar to the one that Brock frequently used on missions, turning it on aggressively. Natasha flinched as the sound of crackling electricity filled the back of the van.

Before she could make any attempt to move away, however, the STRIKE agent swung the electroshock stick around and pressed it against the other agent's neck, causing them to yell briefly before collapsing to the ground unconscious.

Natasha stared in shock, her mouth hanging open as the agent reached up to remove their helmet.

She broke out into a smile as a familiar bob of dark brown hair emerged from underneath the helmet.

"Ow. That thing was squeezing my brain," said Maria, shaking her head as she laid down her helmet, before turning her attention to Sam. "Who's this guy?"

"Sam Wilson," said Sam, giving her an easy smile. "Steve, you have scary friends, you know that, right?"

Steve smiled sheepishly.

Maria dug around in her pocket, bringing out a key and quickly releasing them from their handcuffs. As soon as they were free, Steve went to Natasha's side, putting pressure on her wound.

"What's the plan?" asked Steve.

Maria turned on her electroshock stick, switching it to its highest setting before bringing it down to the metal floor of the van.

"First, we get out of here," she said. "Then, we steal some transport and go to a secret base."

"Steve's good at stealing cars," said Natasha, smiling weakly as Maria slowly cut out a large circle in the bottom of the van.

After a few minutes of patient cutting, the bottom of the van fell away, leaving a hole large enough for them to climb through. The road whizzed by beneath them, a blur of grey that was slightly nauseating to look at.

Finally, they came to a stop, the engine idling as they waited at a set of traffic lights or whatever was going on.

"Now," said Maria sharply. "Everyone out. We're the last in the convoy, so we shouldn't be seen."

Natasha slipped out of the hole, immediately scrambling out from under the van and running into the cover of some trees that lined the side of the road. Steve, Sam and Maria followed quickly. They hid in the undergrowth, watching as the traffic lights turned green and the convoy moved off, unaware that their passengers had escaped.

They let out a collective sigh of relief.

"So, Steve, Natasha says you can steal a car?" said Maria, raising her eyebrows.

Steve smiled.

 

* * *

 

It took Steve alarmingly little time to steal a car.

Maria had let out an impressed-sounding whistle when he had done so, before shepherding them all inside and driving towards an unspecified location that she had only referred to as 'the base'.

Steve had put pressure on Natasha's wound for the entire journey, talking to her in a calm, quiet voice that actually managed to take the edge off her anxiety.

By the time they finally arrived at the base, it was drizzling, the sky grey with leaden clouds. They clambered out of the van, pulling their hoods up against the light rain.

They were at a hydroelectric dam.

Maria led the way towards a gate that covered a small entrance to the dam that was presumably used for maintenance purposes.

She unlocked the gate, speaking into a radio and summoning a doctor.

They entered the dam, Steve and Sam helping Natasha to walk. Natasha looked around, taking in the dimly lit corridor and the crates of food supplies that lined the walls. This base had clearly been designed to be able to support a network of SHIELD agents for a prolonged period of time if necessary.

The sound of footsteps running towards them caught her attention, causing her to look up.

A doctor was jogging towards them, looking at Natasha in concern.

"GSW", said Maria. "She's lost at least a pint of blood."

"Maybe two," said Steve.

The doctor's gaze dropped to her shoulder, his lips pursing with worry at the sight.

"Let me take her," he said, before addressing Natasha directly. "My name is Dr Russo. I'm with SHIELD."

"She'll want to see him first," said Maria.

The doctor nodded, somewhat reluctantly, before hurrying them along down the corridor.

Natasha frowned with confusion. What was Maria talking about? She would want to see  _who_ first?

They emerged from the end of the corridor, the end splitting off into several different rooms. Maria and Dr Russo led the way through a series of interconnecting rooms before finally coming to a stop in a makeshift hospital ward.

Natasha gasped.

Lying back in bed, battered but very much alive, with his head propped up on about three pillows, was Nick Fury.

Upon seeing them enter the room, he broke out into a broad grin.

"It's about damn time," he said.

Natasha sat down heavily on a chair, a maelstrom of emotions going through her: relief, joy, confusion.

Dr Russo sat down next to her, peeling off her jacket and gently pulling back her shirt to look more closely at her wound. Natasha ignored both the doctor and the pain, staring straight at Nick as Dr Russo tended to her wounded shoulder.

"Explain," she said, unable to form any lengthier or more eloquent phrases at this point.

"Nice to see you too, Agent Romanoff," smirked Nick. "Let's see, what's new with me? Lacerated spinal column, cracked sternum, shattered collarbone, perforated liver and one hell of a headache."

Dr Russo looked up briefly, giving Nick a smile.

"Don't forget your collapsed lung," he said.

"Yeah, let's not forget that," agreed Nick. "Otherwise, I'm good."

Natasha shook her head, unable to comprehend how Nick could possibly be alive.

"They cut you open," she said weakly. "Your heart stopped."

Nick shrugged.

"Tetrodotoxin B," he said. "It slows the pulse to one beat a minute. Bruce Banner developed it for stress. Didn't work so great for him, but we found a use for it."

They lapsed into silence, Natasha slowly absorbing the shocking, wonderful news that Nick Fury  _lived_.

"Why all the secrecy?" said Steve eventually. "Why not just tell us?"

"Any attempt on the Director's life had to look successful," said Maria.

Natasha looked at her suspiciously. Did this mean that Maria had known Nick was alive all along? It sounded like it. She briefly imagined throttling her for putting everyone through so much grief, but banished the thought immediately. As unpleasant as it had been to think Nick was dead, she understood that it was necessary.

"They can't kill you if you're already dead," said Nick. "Besides, I wasn't sure who to trust. Can I move from this prison of pillows, Doctor?"

Dr Russo looked up from Natasha's shoulder, which he was just finishing wrapping up with gauze having cleaned and sewn up the wound.

"Yes, but take it easy, Director," he said.

Nick grunted, slowly easing himself out of bed and shuffling over to a nearby table.

The others followed him, crowding together, a strange little band of outlaws. Maria booted up a laptop, clicking and typing as she brought up some documents for their impromptu meeting.

Nick picked up a photograph of Alexander Pierce, looking down at it in disgust.

"This man declined a Nobel Peace Prize," he said. "He said peace wasn't an achievement, it was a responsibility. See, it's stuff like this that gives me trust issues."

Natasha grimaced with sympathy. If Nick had trust issues before, he sure as hell had them now. Perhaps he had had the right idea all along.

"We have to stop the launch," said Natasha.

"I don't think the World Security Council's accepting my calls anymore," said Nick.

He opened up a small briefcase, turning it around so that they could see the contents. Inside was what looked like three small circuit boards, each one about two inches by two inches across.

"What's that?" asked Steve.

Maria cleared her throat, turning around the laptop. On the screen were blueprints for the Insight Helicarriers.

"Once the Helicarriers reach 3,000 feet, they'll triangulate with Insight satellites, becoming fully weaponised," she said.

"We need to breach those Helicarriers and replace their targeting blades with our own," said Nick, tapping the three circuit boards.

"One or two won't cut it," said Maria. "We need to link all three Helicarriers for this to work because if even one of those ships remains operational, a whole lot of people are going to die."

Natasha swallowed. The stakes had never been higher.

"We have to assume everyone aboard those Helicarriers is HYDRA," said Nick. "We have to get past them, insert these server blades, and maybe, just maybe, we can salvage what's left–"

"No," interrupted Steve, crossing his arms. "We're not salvaging anything. We're not just taking down the Helicarriers, Nick. We're taking down SHIELD."

"SHIELD had nothing to do with this!" Nick said indignantly.

Steve shook his head stubbornly.

"You gave me this mission," he said. "This is how it ends. SHIELD's been compromised. You said so yourself. HYDRA grew right under your nose and nobody noticed."

"Why do you think we're meeting in this cave?" said Nick, gesturing around. "I noticed."

"How many paid the price before you did?" asked Steve.

Nick sighed sadly, having the decency to look abashed.

"Look, I didn't know about Barnes," he said softly.

Steve clenched his jaw, a slight tremble going through his frame at the mention of his brainwashed best friend.

"Even if you had, would you have told me?" he said. "Or would you have compartmentalised that, too? SHIELD, HYDRA, it all goes."

There was a moment of tense silence in which everyone waited to see if anyone would object to what Steve was proposing.

"He's right," said Maria, surprising everyone.

Natasha stared at her. Maria had worked her entire adult life at SHIELD. The thought of getting rid of it must be hitting her harder than most. Natasha felt a rush of respect for her. Maria always did what was right, even if it meant that she lost out personally.

Nick's gaze turned to Natasha.

After a moment, she nodded. She agreed with Steve and Maria. SHIELD had been irrevocably compromised. HYDRA's presence was more than an infection, it was an  _infestation_. To defeat HYDRA meant getting rid of SHIELD as well.

Nick's eyes swivelled to Sam, who shrugged.

"Don't look at me. I do what he does, just slower," said Sam, nodding at Steve.

Nick sighed, leaning back in resignation.

"Well, it looks like you're giving the orders now, Captain," he said, giving Steve a gracious nod.

Steve nodded back, looking around at their small team.

Natasha, Steve, Sam, Nick, Maria.

There may only be five of them, but Natasha was taken by the feeling that the five of them was more than enough.

HYDRA would not know what hit them.

 

* * *

 

They dropped Natasha off at the airport.

They had gone through the plan at length, going over every possibility, but Natasha still felt a small flicker of anxiety.

The first part of her plan involved a member of the World Security Council.

Nick had assured that Councilwoman Hawley was a good woman, but to Natasha she was an unknown variable. Natasha did not know this woman, did not know how she would react. The unfamiliarity put her on edge.

She breathed deeply, going through the ballet routine in her head to numb her mind slightly, breathing a sigh of relief as the nervousness lessened.

She kept her eyes trained on the Arrivals gate that she had been told Councilwoman Hawley would be arriving at, waiting. She did not have to wait for long. Ten minutes later, a stream of people began emerging from the gate.

She spotted Councilwoman Hawley immediately, looking smart in a blue suit and with her hair perfectly coiffed.

She walked forwards, fixing Councilwoman Hawley with a smile as she shook her hand.

"Councilwoman Hawley?" she said. "I'm Agent Natalie Rushman, with SHIELD. It's a pleasure to meet you. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to your car."

Councilwoman Hawley gave her a warm smile in return, exchanging pleasantries and following her without question.

Natasha breathed out a sigh of relief. She had been worried that the Councilwoman might have seen the SHIELD internal email declaring her wanted, but it seemed, thankfully, that she was not on the mailing list.

"Is it OK if we pop to the bathroom first?" asked Natasha, smiling sweetly.

"Of course, there's plenty of time," said Councilwoman Hawley, following her into the ladies toilets.

As soon as they were both inside, Natasha checked that all the cubicles were empty before locking the main door behind them and turning urgently to Councilwoman Hawley.

"You need to listen to me," she said quickly. "SHIELD has been infiltrated by a terrorist organisation called HYDRA. We believe that they're going to use the Insight Helicarriers to wipe out millions of innocent civilians worldwide."

Councilwoman Hawley, to her credit, took the bombshell extremely well. She stared silently at Natasha for a good few seconds, before frowning.

"Your name isn't Natalie Rushman, is it?" she said.

Natasha blinked, astounded that  _this_ was what the Councilwoman was going to want to discuss first.

"No," she admitted. "My real name is Natasha Romanoff. I'm currently wanted. I used a fake name in case you'd got the memo. Um, sorry."

Councilwoman Hawley smiled.

"It's quite OK," she said kindly. "Now, why should I believe you?"

Natasha's breath faltered. She had no proof. She was wanted; it would make sense for her to make up a story. Although every word she was saying was true, she had no way of proving it to the Councilwoman.

"HYDRA tried to kill Nick Fury," she said desperately. "Alexander Pierce is their leader. They got a Russian assassin to shoot Fury because he got his hands on intel that he wasn't supposed to have. Captain America and I tracked it down. It was an AI, the digital brain of a Nazi scientist. The AI built an algorithm that would identify any present or future threats to HYDRA, for the Insight Helicarriers to wipe out. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. All of it. Please, you have to hide. Your life is in danger. They  _shot_ me to try to stop me."

She pulled down her top, briefly peeling away the gauze to reveal the bullet wound.

Councilwoman Hawley looked at the gunshot for a long moment, before nodding.

"OK," said the Councilwoman.

Natasha stared at her.

"OK?" she said incredulously. "You believe me?"

Councilwoman Hawley shrugged.

"You've been shot. Your story is too crazy to be made up," she said. "And I don't trust Alexander Pierce. Tell me how I can help you."

Natasha grabbed the Councilwoman by the arms, pulling her into a tight hug.

" _Thank you_ ," she said. "You need to get out of here. Check in to a hotel somewhere and keep your head down. If you consent, I'll take your place at the Council."

Councilwoman Hawley nodded hesitantly.

"How will you take my place?" she asked. "You don't look like me."

Natasha smiled.

"I will do."

 

* * *

 

The ride from the airport to the Triskelion took longer than usual due to heavy traffic.

Natasha sat in the back of the car, watching the two SHIELD agents in the front seats. She wondered if they were loyal to SHIELD or HYDRA.

"We're 5 minutes out, Councilwoman Hawley," said the driver eventually. "If you look across the Potomac to your left, you can see the Triskelion."

Natasha looked out of the window politely.

"What a marvellous-looking building," she said.

It was strange to hear Councilwoman Hawley's voice come out of her mouth.

She had disguised herself using a smart-skin that was attached to her face and neck. The real Councilwoman Hawley had temporarily donned it in the airport ladies toilets and reeled off a set of simple sentences. As a result, the smart-skin was calibrated to be a perfect copy of her face and speech patterns. Now Natasha was wearing it, meaning that she looked and sounded exactly like Councilwoman Hawley.

Smart-skin had originally been designed to help veterans who had suffered facial injuries during conflict. Natasha thought it was an equally useful addition to a spy's toolkit.

The illusion was completed with Councilwoman Hawley's clothes (they had swapped clothes in the toilets, luckily being a similar height and build) and a wig that Natasha had brought from the base.

She was fairly sure that even the Councilwoman's husband would not be able to tell the difference between the two of them.

They crossed the bridge. Natasha looked out of the window, watching as the Triskelion loomed above them as they drew closer.

Less than a minute later, they stopped. The two SHIELD agents hopped out immediately, opening the car door for her and offering her a hand as she got out.

Natasha took it graciously, smiling at the agents and making small talk as they led her inside the Triskelion.

They entered the main lobby, bypassing the usual security scans due to her status as a visitor. Her heart rate sped up when she saw Alexander Pierce waving at her, the other members of the World Security Council already in attendance.

Pierce was dressed in a sharp suit, his blue eyes alert and his grey hair swept neatly into place. Everything about him oozed power.

"How was your flight?" he asked, striding forwards to shake her hand.

"Lovely," she said, careful to keep her voice calm and even. "The ride from the airport, less so."

Pierce chuckled.

"Sadly, SHIELD can't control everything," he said.

 _But you'd like to, wouldn't you, you son of a bitch_ , Natasha thought viciously.

"Including Captain America," boomed one of the other Councilmembers.

He was a white male. Councilman Rockwell, she remembered from her notes. The Oriental man was Councilman Yen, and the Asian man was Councilman Singh.

Annoyance briefly flashed over Pierce's face at the mention of Captain America, but it instantly smoothed over, being replaced by a charming smile.

"This facility is biometrically controlled," he said, ignoring Rockwell's comment and handing out a set of clips. "These clips will give you unrestricted access."

Natasha attached the pin to the lapel of her suit, before following Pierce to a lift that was waiting for them at the end of the lobby.

They all squeezed into the lift, turning to look out at the Washington DC skyline as they rose up the glass lift shaft.

Her arm brushed against Pierce's. She resisted the urge to grab hold of his arm and break it.

"What a stunning view," she said, to distract herself.

"Gorgeous, isn't it?" said Pierce.

They reached the top floor, stepping out into Pierce's personal office, resplendent and surrounded by glass walls.

Pierce led them to the centre of the room, pouring out five flutes of champagne and handing them around to everyone. Natasha took hers, her fingers tingling with anticipation on the cold glass.

"I know the road here hasn't exactly been smooth, and some of you would have gladly kicked me out of the car along the way, but finally, we're here," he said. "And the world should be grateful."

They raised their glasses, bringing them to their lips and toasting Pierce's words. Natasha carefully did not let any of the alcoholic liquid pass her lips. She was on a mission. She could not allow herself to be compromised.

As the others took a sip – and Natasha pretended – the PA system crackled into life.

A rush of relief went through her. The others had managed to get into the Triskelion.

"Attention all SHIELD agents," said a familiar voice over the PA system. "This is Steve Rogers. You've heard a lot about me over the last few days. Some of you were even ordered to hunt me down. But I think it's time you know the truth. SHIELD is not what we thought it was. It's been taken over by HYDRA. Alexander Pierce is their leader."

The Councilmembers turned to stare at Pierce, who had gone very still, his face slowly reddening with anger.

"The STRIKE and Insight crew are HYDRA as well," continued Steve. "I don't know how many more, but I know they're in the building. They could be standing right next to you. They almost had what they wanted: absolute control. They shot Nick Fury, and it won't end there. If you launch those Helicarriers today, HYDRA will be able to kill anyone that stands in their way. Unless we stop them. I know I'm asking a lot, but the price of freedom is high; it always has been. And it's a price I'm willing to pay. And if I'm the only one, then so be it, but I'm willing to bet I'm not."

The PA clicked off.

The silence was deafening.

Natasha's eyes darted around room, taking in the horrified expressions of the other Councilmembers and the ugly expression on Pierce's face.

"You smug son of a bitch," said Rockwell, looking at Pierce with disgust.

The sound of thundering footsteps floated up the stairs, and moments later, Jack Rollins and several other STRIKE members came running into the room.

Natasha felt a rush of hatred as her eyes fell on her former STRIKE Team Delta teammate. She had gone on countless missions with Jack. She had trusted him. All along, he had been HYDRA. She controlled her breathing.

Councilman Singh looked across at Jack and gestured angrily towards Pierce.

"Arrest him!" he ordered.

Jack smirked, pulling out a gun and pointing it at Singh's head. The Indian froze, his eyes wide with fear.

"I guess I've got the floor," said Pierce, his megawatt smile firmly back in place. "Take a look outside. It's a beautiful day. But today is more than that. Today is the day that we make the world a safer place."

They slowly walked towards the glass walls, looking out across the Potomac at Washington DC. A mechanical groaning noise sounded from below and Natasha let out a small gasp of horror as she saw the hangar containing the Helicarriers slowly open its roof.

She watched, spellbound and horrified, as the three Helicarriers began their slow ascent upwards.

Her chest was tight. It was difficult to breathe.

If those Helicarriers reached 3,000 feet, then millions of people would die.

Suddenly, she caught sight of Sam, gliding through the air with his mechanical Falcon wings. Some of the guns on the nearest Helicarrier activated, trying to shoot him down. Sam ducked and weaved, gracefully avoiding the shots, too agile for the Helicarrier's clunky weaponry.

"Stop this," begged Singh. "This is wrong."

"Let me ask you a question," replied Pierce. "What if Pakistan marched into Mumbai tomorrow and you knew that they were going to drag your daughters into a soccer stadium for execution, and you could just stop it, with a flick of the switch? Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you all?"

Singh threw his champagne flute to the floor in disgust, the delicate glass shattering into tiny pieces.

"Not if it was your switch," he spat.

Pierce chuckled, shaking his head and holding out his hand. Jack smirked, passing him the gun and taking a step back. Pierce lifted his arm, pointing the gun straight between Singh's eyes.

Natasha sprang into action, kicking Pierce hard in the chest before spinning around and attacking the STRIKE team that immediately rushed to his assistance.

The fight was brief but violent, Natasha handing out a flurry of kicks, punches and snapped bones. Task done, she turned back to Pierce, the unconscious bodies of his STRIKE team littering the floor behind her.

Pierce stared at her in shock, the gun held loosely in his hand. Natasha yanked it away from him before he could remember that he had it, flicking off the safety switch and pointing it at his head.

Figuring her cover was now blown, she removed the itchy wig, deactivating the smart-skin and peeling it off her face.

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling a rush of satisfaction as Pierce's eyes bulged with shock. "Did I step on your moment?"

Pierce's face was congested as he gaped at her wordlessly for a long moment.

"You  _bitch_ ," he breathed finally, giving her a withering glare.

Natasha waved the insult aside, walking over to Councilman Yen and giving him the gun.

"Keep this trained on Pierce at all times," she instructed. "If he makes any sudden moves, pull the trigger to shoot."

Yen nodded, his arm steady as he pointed the gun at Pierce.

Satisfied that he was holding the weapon correctly, Natasha crossed over to a computer and quickly navigated to the part of the system she wanted.

She began going through each file individually, manually typing out a line of code that would help her to achieve her aim. Her actions were being projected onto a holographic screen in the middle of the room, which the other Councilmembers – apart from Yen, obviously – were now looking at curiously.

"What are you doing?" asked Rockwell.

"She's disabling the security protocols and dumping all the secrets onto the internet," said Pierce, his blue eyes scrutinising her shrewdly.

"Including HYDRA's," said Natasha.

"And SHIELD's," said Pierce. "If you do this, none of your past is going to remain hidden. Are you sure you're ready for the world to see you as you really are?"

Natasha's fingers slowed on the keyboard. Pierce was trying to play on her fears, trying to make her afraid or ashamed of her past. Perhaps it might have worked, years ago, but not anymore.

Natasha had made peace with her past. She accepted that she had done terrible things, but she knew also that she had done plenty to redress the balance. Nothing would bring back the innocent people she had killed, and she mourned them daily, but she knew, honestly, that by now she had saved many more lives than she had ever taken.

She did not consider herself a hero, far from it, but she did not consider herself a villain either.

She accepted everything that she was, and everything that she had been, including her regrets and mistakes.

She was no longer afraid.

She looked up at Pierce, meeting his gaze calmly.

"Are you?" she countered simply.

Pierce looked at her uneasily, seemingly unsettled by her calmness.

"Disabling the encryption is an executive order," he said, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "It takes two Alpha Level members."

Natasha smiled at him sweetly.

"Don't worry," she said. "Company's coming."

Right on cue, the sound of a helicopter arriving floated in through the glass walls. Natasha watched as Nick landed the helicopter on the roof, his flight perfectly controlled despite his injuries. She wondered how much pain relief medication Dr Russo had had to give him.

Her gaze flicked upwards to the Helicarriers, which were still rising steadily. She swallowed nervously. If everything was going to plan, then Steve and Sam should be up there now, replacing the Helicarriers' targeting blades with their own and then getting the hell out of there.

Unfortunately, she had no way of telling how they were doing; they had collectively deemed it too dangerous for her to wear an earpiece in case it attracted unwanted attention.

Nick's heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and then he was striding into the room, glaring at Pierce as his gaze narrowed in on him.

"Did you get my flowers?" quipped Pierce. "I'm glad you're here, Nick."

Nick laughed derisively, shooting him a look laden with disgust.

"Really?" he said. "Because I thought you had me killed."

"You know how the game works," said Pierce.

Nick's eyes narrowed.

"So why make me head of SHIELD?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because you were the best, and the most ruthless person I ever met," said Pierce.

"I did what I did to  _protect_ people," said Nick, through gritted teeth.

Pierce spread his arms wide, looking around with his eyebrows raised, as if he could not understand why no one else in the room subscribed to his way of thinking.

"Our enemies are your enemies, Nick: disorder, war," he said. "It's just a matter of time before a dirty bomb goes off in Moscow, or an EMP fries Chicago. Diplomacy? It's a holding action, Nick, a band-aid. And you know where I learnt that? Bogota. You didn't ask. You just did what had to be done. I can bring order to the lives of  _7 billion_  people by sacrificing 20 million. It's the next step, Nick, if you have the courage to take it."

Natasha looked away in disgust. Listening to Pierce trying to justify his actions was sickening. He was talking about murder. The murder of 20 million people who had not done anything wrong.

"I have the courage not to," said Nick, before striding forwards and taking Pierce by the arm, pulling him over to the retinal scanner.

"Retinal scanner active," said the computer.

Pierce did not move, deliberately avoiding looking at the retinal scanner.

Natasha crossed over to Councilman Yen, taking her gun from him before walking over to Pierce, pointing it at his head.

Pierce laughed, unworried by the gun mere inches away from his head.

"You don't think we've wiped your clearance from the system?" he sneered, shooting Nick a dirty look.

Nick sighed.

"I know you erased my password," he said. "Probably deleted my retinal scan too. But if you want to stay ahead of me, Mr Secretary, you need to keep both eyes open."

He reached up, pulling off his eye patch to reveal his blind, ruined eye. The iris was a cloudy grey and there was scarring around his eyelids, as if someone had slashed across his face with a knife.

Pierce swallowed, finally turning towards the retinal scanner and allowing it to scan his eye, just as Nick did the same with his blind eye.

"Alpha Level confirmed," said the computer. "Encryption code accepted. Safeguards removed."

Natasha watched the screen as the encryption was removed from all of SHIELD's files. Within seconds, the files had been dumped onto the internet. It was almost anticlimactic, the ease with which such a weighty task had been done.

"Done," she said, pulling out her mobile phone and bringing up Twitter. "And it's trending."

Pierce pulled out his own phone, presumably to check for himself. Councilman Yen collapsed to the ground, Singh and Rockwell following him within seconds as they were electrocuted by the biometric clips they had pinned onto their lapels. Pierce must be controlling them from his phone, Natasha realised.

She instantly flicked the safety off her gun and pointed it at Pierce. He smiled at her slowly, his thumb hovering over a button on his phone. It was her pin, she realised. Her pin was the next one he was going to activate.

"Unless you want a 2 inch hole in your sternum, I'd put that gun down," he said. "That was armed the moment you pinned it on."

His thumb was millimetres away from pressing the button. Even if she shot him, his thumb would make contact with the button and electrocute her. She slowly lowered her gun. 

Pierce smirked, something like victory flashing in his eyes.

"Lieutenant, how much longer?" he asked over comms, speaking to the HYDRA agents that were piloting the three Insight Helicarriers that were still rising overhead.

"65 seconds to satellite link," said the Lieutenant. "Targeting grid engaged, lowering weapons array now."

Natasha watched, her stomach churning with fear. If the Helicarriers reached altitude, then leaking HYDRA's files on the internet would all be for nothing. They would still win. They would slaughter millions. Natasha suddenly wished that she were on board the Helicarriers, helping Steve and Sam. She wondered desperately how they were getting on.

Surely, if they had been successful, the Helicarriers would no longer be rising. The fact they were still flying upwards could only mean one thing: they had not yet completed the mission.

And time was running out.

"We've reached 3,000 feet," said the Lieutenant. "Sat link coming online now. Algorithm deployed."

Natasha's eyes widened with panic.

"We are go to target," said Pierce.

"Target saturation reached," said the Lieutenant. "All targets assigned. Firing in three... Two... One..."

Natasha gasped in horror, her heart hammering painfully and angry tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. They had failed. HYDRA had won. Millions were going to die because she, Steve and Sam had not been fast enough.

_Fuck._

"Where are the targets?" demanded the Lieutenant.

Her head jerked up, hope clawing at her insides and then exploding when she saw the Helicarrier weaponry moving upwards, away from the millions of innocent targets on the ground, and locking on to one another.

A burst of triumph spurted through her. Steve and Sam had done it. They had replaced the Helicarrier's targeting parameters with their own.

The guns stared firing simultaneously, each Helicarrier tearing the other two apart with a hail of bullets and missiles. She watched as the three Helicarriers began to disintegrate, fire licking along their sides as they fell apart, crashing back down towards the Potomac River.

"What a waste," spat Pierce, looking disgusted as the Helicarriers continued to destroy one another.

"You still on the fence about Rogers' chances?" said Natasha.

Pierce glared at her, his eyes full of spite.

"Time to go,  _Councilwoman_ ," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "This way. Come on. You're going to fly me out of here."

Natasha reluctantly started moving towards the door, briefly making eye contact with Nick, who nodded at her very slightly. Her hand drifted down into her pocket, her fingers closing around something small and metal.

"You know," said Nick, addressing Pierce. "There was a time I would've taken a bullet for you."

"You already did," said Pierce. "You will again, when it's useful."

Natasha pulled out the miniature EMP device from her pocket and pressed the button, activating it.

She had surmised, correctly, that it would briefly knock out both Pierce's phone and the electric clip on her lapel. During that time, with Pierce's connection to the clip temporarily down, Nick should have enough time to disarm him.

What she had not taken into account, however, was the fact that the clip might actually discharge.

It did.

She was briefly aware of agonising pain in her chest, just below where the clip sat innocuously on her lapel.

She looked down, seeing sparks of electricity on her chest, before falling to the side, her head making contact with the floor as she slumped over.

She blacked out.

She gradually came back to awareness, hearing someone calling her name.

"Romanoff!"

She knew that voice. It was the voice of someone she trusted. Someone good.

"Natasha!"

A friend, perhaps? No. Red Room Academy girls did not have friends.

But then, she had never been one for the rules. She remembered James, how she had broken the rules to see him every month. She smiled. She liked James.

"Natasha, come on!"

Nick. That was it. That was who the voice belonged to: Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD.

SHIELD.

Her eyes snapped open, a small groan passing her lips as the pain rushed back to her, obliterating the last of her pain-induced daydream.

"Ow," she said. "Those really do sting."

Nick's worried face above her visibly relaxed. She looked over to the side, seeing Pierce lying flat on his back, blood blooming across his shirt where Nick had shot him in the chest.

"Good shot," she said, nodding at Pierce.

Nick grunted, pulling her to her feet.

"Let's not congratulate one another yet," he said gravely. "Maria's out of here safely but Steve and Sam are still in danger."

Natasha followed Nick as he rushed outside to the helicopter. It was windy at this altitude, the wind blowing her red hair all over her face.

She pushed it back roughly as she jumped into the back of the helicopter, grabbing a comms headset and jamming it on her head as Nick climbed into the pilot's seat and took off.

An enormous crashing noise grabbed her attention. She looked down, her eyes widening with horror as she saw one of Helicarrier's crash into the side of the Triskelion.

A split second later, Sam yelled out over comms.

"Please tell me you've got that chopper in the air!" he shouted.

"Sam, where are you?" she replied immediately, raising her voice to be heard over the wind.

The left side door of the helicopter was open, something that was necessary for what they had to do next.

"41st floor!" shouted Sam. "Northwest corner!"

It sounded as though he was running.

"We're on it!" she said. "Stay where you are!"

"Not an option!"

Natasha sucked in a breath as the meaning of his words hit her.

"He's going to jump," she said to Nick. "41st floor. Northwest corner."

Nick instantly pulled the helicopter around, bringing them to the correct side of the Triskelion just as glass shattered far above them as Sam leapt out of a Triskelion window.

"Hold on!" snarled Nick.

He pitched the helicopter onto its side, turning them 90 degrees so that the open left side door was pointing upwards, ready to catch Sam.

Natasha looked up, shrinking backwards as she saw Sam free-falling right at her. He entered the helicopter with a yell. Natasha grabbed hold of his arm, catching him as he smashed into the door on the other side of the helicopter. Sam's hand reached out and grabbed onto her, gripping tight just as the right hand door fell away, knocked out by the force of Sam's fall.

Nick righted the helicopter, bring them back to an upright orientation.

"41st floor!" said Sam. "41st!"

Nick looked back at his passengers from the cockpit, somehow looking both relieved and annoyed.

"It's not like they put the floor numbers on the outside of the building," he said shortly.

"Hello?" came Maria's voice over comms. "Is anyone there?"

"Hill!" said Natasha, relief flooding through her. Maria was safe. Sam was safe. Just one more person to find, and then she could finally relax. "Where's Steve? You got a location on Rogers?"

There was a small pause where Natasha could hear Maria talking urgently to someone else.

"Negative," said Maria eventually. "Search the crash sites. He was still inside the Helicarrier when it went down."

Natasha sat back with a thump, suddenly feeling sick.

"Hey, what's up?" said Sam, looking concerned. "Where's Steve?"

She swallowed several times, momentarily unable to find her voice as the terrifying truth that Steve could very likely be dead hit her.

"He was still on board one of the Helicarriers when they started shooting at one another," she said finally. "He's missing."

Nick brought the helicopter down gently to the ground. Natasha looked around, having not even noticed their descent due to the shocking nature of Maria's news about Steve.

"Captain Rogers is missing?" asked Nick, twisting around to stare at her hard.

Natasha nodded mutely.

"Then don't just sit there. We need to find him," he said.

Natasha unbuckled herself from the helicopter, inordinately thankful to have been given a direct order. It was much easier to function when she had instructions.

They jumped out of the helicopter, running towards a nearby SHIELD van that looked as though it had been abandoned after evacuating staff from the Triskelion.

Nick jumped into the driver's seat, Natasha taking the front passenger seat and Sam sliding into the back.

The car jolted violently as Nick started the engine, tearing off at a speed that was definitely breaking the speed limit.

Natasha looked out of the window desperately, her eyes scanning the scene in front of her wildly. All the Helicarriers were now floating in the Potomac, blown to pieces and barely recognisable, large segments already sinking below the waterline.

Steve was in there somewhere, inside one of those twisted shells, injured or unconscious or worse.

"Look out!" yelled Sam.

Natasha lurched forward, saved only by her seat belt as Nick slammed on the brakes to avoid the civilian who had just run out in front of them in the road.

She wound down the window, glaring daggers at the man who was slowing down their search for Steve.

"Are you out of your mind?" she shouted furiously. "Get out of the road!"

The civilian cowered, shrinking away from her but not moving out of the way.

"Please, you've got to help," the man said urgently. "I just found a guy lying on the banks of the river. He's unconscious. Looks like he's been drowned and shot."

Natasha exchanged looks with Nick. They had to find Steve. Every second they were standing talking to this man was another second they were not at the crash site.

"Take us to the man," said Nick, silencing Natasha with a glare as she tried to protest. "We are  _SHIELD_ , Natasha. We have to help. We can't leave this man to die."

Natasha gritted her teeth, wanting to scream and take the wheel herself, but she found her fingers fumbling with her seat belt, staggering out of the car after her colleague.

Nick was right.

This was what SHIELD was about: saving lives. The man on the river bank needed help. They were that help.

They slipped down the muddy river bank, finally rounding a set of trees to see the man the civilian had found.

_Steve._

Natasha was running as soon as her eyes zeroed in on her friend. Steve was the man on the river bank. Steve was lying there, still and frightening pale, his eyes closed and blood soaking his uniform.

She fell to her knees beside him, the cold, wet mud soaking through her trousers. She put a hand on his neck, feeling for a pulse and almost crying with joy when she found one.

"He's alive," she said.

"Put pressure on the wound," said Sam, at her side in an instant.

Natasha did so, repressing a shudder as blood spurted out around her fingers.

"Nick, help me lift him," said Sam, hooking his arms underneath Steve's shoulders. "Natasha, be ready for when we move. Keep that pressure on his wound steady."

Nick hurried forward, grabbing hold of Steve's legs and on the count of three the men heaved, lifting him up. Natasha stayed by his side, keeping an even pressure on Steve's chest.

"Come on, Steve," she urged desperately. "Stay with us. Stay with me."

They hurried back to the car, Natasha talking to Steve the whole way, praying wildly to any and all Gods that may be listening that please, please, Steve was a good man, Steve had to be saved, the world needed him, she needed him.

They laid him carefully in the back seat, Natasha and Sam cramming in the back with him, keeping a close eye on his pulse and putting pressure on his various wounds. It looked as though he had been shot in the chest, abdomen and leg.

Tears welled up in Natasha's eyes.

She had lost Elena, James and Phil. She could not lose Steve too. Steve was a good man. He deserved to live.

"Drive," breathed Natasha, not taking her eyes off Steve's face.

Nick complied immediately, driving as fast he dared to the hospital.

Natasha cupped Steve's cheek with one hand as the other applied pressure to his abdomen.

Dirty river water dripped from his hair.

 

* * *

 

It was a long, long day and an even longer night, but in the early hours of the following morning, Steve stabilised.

"He's going to be OK," said the doctor, stiffening awkwardly when Natasha rushed forward and hugged him tightly.

She heard three sighs of relief from behind her and turned to give Sam, Nick and Maria a watery smile. The four of them had stayed outside the intensive care unit the entire night, not budging an inch for fear of missing out on news about Steve.

Every awful scenario had gone through Natasha's head: death, brain damage, paralysis. It was a sweet, sweet relief to finally hear that Steve was going make it, that he was going to fully recover.

"Thank fuck," breathed Maria, suddenly looking exhausted as she slumped down onto a chair.

The doctor gave them a small smile before hurrying off to deal with another patient, leaving the haggard-looking foursome alone.

"How did Steve end up on the banks of the river?" asked Natasha suddenly.

It had been bothering her, but until now, she had been consumed by thoughts of Steve's immediate survival. Now that that was guaranteed, she had questions.

"Think about it," she continued. "If he was in the Helicarrier when it went down, then he should have gone down with it. He should have drifted  _way_ further downstream before washing up on the river bank."

Nick cleared his throat awkwardly, his hand disappearing into his pocket to pull out his smartphone.

"I received some intel on that front a couple of hours ago," he admitted, setting his jaw when he was met with three angry glares. "The river banks of the Potomac are covered by CCTV, for security reasons due to their proximity to the Triskelion. They captured what happened."

"And what happened?" asked Maria, looking at Nick suspiciously.

Nick sighed, rubbing his neck and looking up at the ceiling.

"The Winter Soldier dragged him out," he said.

A stunned silence followed. Natasha’s head span. The Winter Soldier had saved Steve. He must have fought back against his brainwashing, just as he had done in Madame B's bedroom with Natasha all those years ago.

Briefly, he had become Bucky Barnes once more, and he had saved Steve, his best friend from childhood.

Natasha's gaze flicked back to Nick, taking in the rigidity of his muscles. He refused to make eye contact.

"You're holding something back," she said quietly. "What happened next?"

Nick closed his eyes, suddenly looking far more tired than she had ever seen him.

"He walked off, left Steve on the river bank" he said. "The Winter Soldier managed to walk maybe 200 yards downstream before HYDRA agents found him, knocked him unconscious and dragged him away."

Natasha balked, horrified.

"He's been kidnapped!" she said. "We have to save him!"

Nick shook his head tiredly.

"No," he said.

"But sir, he's being brainwashed," said Natasha. "He's an innocent man being forced to do terrible things. We need to get out there and find him. We're SHIELD. We need to–"

"No, Natasha," said Nick, more firmly this time. "This mission is over.  _SHIELD is over._ I'm sorry, but we can't do any more."

Natasha gnashed her teeth, her fists curled tight with frustration.

"We can't just stand by and let an innocent man be tortured and brainwashed," she said, her voice shaking.

Nick sighed, looking at her sadly. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.

"I am incredibly proud of the person you've become," he said. "You've surpassed all my expectations as both an agent and a person."

He wrapped his coat a little tighter around himself, pulling a hood down over his head and walking towards the door.

"The government has called an emergency committee," he said, turning around right before leaving the room. "Your attendance is required. I know you'll do good, Nat. You always do."

He turned and walked out of the doors, a whoosh of cool night air hitting them as the door swung closed.

"It's  _Natasha_ ," she said numbly.

Squeezing her eyes shut against tears, she left the hospital a few seconds later.

Nick had already disappeared, but that was OK, she had not meant to follow him.

She spent most of the night walking, although in reality is felt more aimless than that, more like drifting.

SHIELD was gone.

The Winter Soldier – no,  _Bucky Barnes_  – had been kidnapped.

What was she going to do?

 

* * *

 

Government committees were the same all around the world: boring, bureaucratic and bullshit.

Perhaps the last one was a bit harsh, but Natasha could not bring herself to care. She hated them; hated their rigid formality and strange rules.

Her skin itched in her formal clothing, a bad temper itching on a deeper level as she placed her hand on a Bible.

She was not religious. She should not be here. She  _should_ be out searching for Bucky Barnes. This was stupid, time-wasting bullshit.

"Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" asked the female bailiff.

Natasha forced herself not to roll her eyes, instead looking straight ahead at the logo of the Department of Defense as she laid her hand flat on the Bible.

"I do."

"Why haven't we yet heard from Captain Rogers?" asked one of the committee members, once they were all sat down.

Natasha felt annoyance flare up inside her. Steve had only just woken up that morning, battered and in pain. Sam was at the hospital, keeping him company, but just because Steve was awake did not mean he was in any way ready to face a roomful of bureaucrats.

Natasha squashed down her annoyance, keeping her emotions and opinions to herself.

"I don't know what there is left for him to say," she said instead. "I think the wreck in the middle of the Potomac made his point fairly eloquently."

Undeterred, the committee member continued.

"Well," he said. "He could explain how this country is expected to maintain its national security now that he and you have laid waste to our intelligence apparatus."

Natasha frowned.

"HYDRA was selling you lies, not intelligence," she said.

"Many of which you seemed to have had a personal hand in telling," the committee member countered immediately.

Natasha glared hard. That was a low blow. She had not known that HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD, and the damn man knew it.

At this point, one of his colleagues took over questioning. Natasha's eyes flicked over to the new man.

"Agent," he said. "You should know that there are some on this committee who feel, given your service record both for this country and against it, that you belong in a penitentiary, not mouthing off on Capitol Hill."

Natasha's eyes narrowed, far from intimidated.

"You're not going to put me in a prison." she said flatly. "You're not going to put any of us in a prison. Do you know why?"

"Do enlighten us," said the man, looking bored.

"Because you need us," she said. "Yes, the world is a vulnerable place, and yes, we helped make it that way. But we're also the ones best qualified to defend it. So, if you want to arrest me, arrest me. You'll know where to find me."

Reaching the very end of her patience, she got up, her chair scraping on the wooden floor as she walked out of the room.

She was vaguely aware of cameras flashing and reporters clamouring around her, but more than anything she simply heard the blood roaring in her ears as she walked out of the building.

She half-expected security to run out and drag her back in, but it did not happen. Perhaps they had accepted the situation as it was. Perhaps they were simply too stunned by the fact she had just  _walked out_.

Whatever the reason, she was not going to stick around to find out what it was.

Hailing a taxi, she quickly made her way back to her flat.

Once in the quiet of her own four walls, she sagged, closing her eyes and sliding to the floor.

It was a physical pain, an ache in her chest, to know that SHIELD no longer existed. SHIELD had become a part of her, and now that part of her had been ripped away, and it hurt.

Surely, it could not end like this? It felt  _wrong_ , to just give up on everything SHIELD had stood for.

Because SHIELD was more than just an organisation. It was a set of values, a set of magnificent, wonderful, selfless men and women who did the right thing, who stood up for justice, who defended the helpless.

She sat up a little straighter, staring right ahead, her heart beating a little faster.

Even if the organisation of SHIELD had ceased to exist, that did not mean that she ceased to have the values of a SHIELD agent. They were still a part of her, a fierce part of her, a part of her that was close to her heart, that  _was_ her heart.

She was a still SHIELD agent, even if the organisation had been disbanded and condemned as a disgrace.

She stood up abruptly.

She knew what she was going to do. She was going to what any SHIELD agent would do: what was right.

Her hands trembling slightly with excitement and nerves, she staggered to her bedroom, searching through her drawers to find what she would need.

A passport.

Some clothes.

And a mixture of currencies: US dollars and Ukrainian hryvnia.

 

* * *

 

Kiev was as beautiful as she remembered.

She sat in the darkened apartment, waiting quietly for the owner to return. She hoped very much that the owner had not moved. It would be very difficult for Natasha to explain her presence in the flat if that had happened.

Several hours passed, Natasha eyes glued to the front door as the sun gradually set and dusk became night.

By the time Natasha heard footsteps approaching the front door, the sky was an inky black.

She strained her ears. One set of footsteps: good. The correct weight, gait and speed that matched the person she was expecting: even more promising.

The front door opened, the home owner stepping inside and flicking on the light just as the door swung shut.

There was a sharp gasp, and then a gun was pointing straight at Natasha's head.

"It's just me!" said Natasha quickly, holding her hands up to show that she was not a threat.

Tatiana's eyes narrowed, the gun not moving a millimetre.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

Natasha kept her breathing even, hoping desperately that she had not made a terrible mistake in coming here, to the home of a trained assassin half the world away.

"You owe me a debt," said Natasha quietly. "I saved your life in the hospital fire. I've come to collect that debt."

Tatiana's sharp grey eyes bored into hers, searching out any morsel of dishonesty. Apparently finding none, she slowly lowered her gun, tucking it back into the holster sewn into her jacket.

"You didn't set off my booby-traps," she said, locking the door behind her.

"I disabled them," Natasha reassured her. "I didn't destroy them. You can set them up again."

Tatiana shook her head seriously.

"I need you to show me how you got passed them," she said. "They're my security."

"Sure," said Natasha.

She wondered if Tatiana was still working for the KGB. Presumably, seeing as her flat was booby-trapped and she carried a gun. Natasha wondered if Tatiana was enjoying the life.

"Have you eaten?" asked Tatiana.

Natasha shook her head.

Tatiana's face suddenly broke out into a warm smile, life instantly coming to her grey eyes and pale face. Her limp, mousy brown hair swayed as she walked up to her excitedly.

"Let me cook for you," she said, grabbing hold of her hands. "Please. I never have guests."

She looked radiant, absurdly happy to be able to do this one simple act of kindness. Natasha felt a pang of pity for her former classmate. Tatiana had not had friends growing up, and it was blindingly obvious that she still did not have any now.

Tatiana had never been camping out under the stars singing songs in Yosemite. She had never played scrabble and gone out for coffee and cake with a friend, as Natasha had done. Tatiana had never had a single friend, and yet she was looking at Natasha with such hope in her eyes, as if cooking her dinner would make her the happiest woman alive.

"Sure," said Natasha, smiling weakly. "That sounds great. But, you know, don't think that's going to pay off your debt."

Tatiana laughed softly, heading to the kitchen and busying herself with pots and pans as she threw together ingredients and switched on the hob.

"I saw you on the TV," she said, her grey eyes staring at her unblinkingly. "You were on the news. Telling the US government to kiss your ass."

Natasha lowered her gaze, grinning awkwardly.

"Oh, just a typical day in the life of Natasha Romanoff," she joked.

One of the pans began bubbling, a rich aroma drifting over the kitchen. Natasha inhaled greedily as Tatiana stirred the contents of the pan.

"What does happen to you in a typical day?" asked Tatiana, still staring at her.

Natasha tried not to fidget under the intense scrutiny.

"Well, before SHIELD fell, I was usually at work Monday to Friday," she said. "On Friday night, a couple of friends and I usually meet for food and cocktails. We spend the evening together, chatting, maybe watching a movie – the usual friend stuff, you know? Saturdays and Sundays I do life admin, read books, go shopping, maybe see my friends some more."

"Friends," echoed Tatiana, looking sad as she finally tore her eyes away from Natasha, switching off the hob and pouring the broth into two bowls. "What is it like to have friends?"

Natasha looked at the other woman cautiously. She had never seen Tatiana look so wistful before. She briefly wondered if she was faking it, if it was a trick, but one look at her sad grey eyes told Natasha that Tatiana was being completely genuine.

It was heartbreaking.

"It's nice," said Natasha. "Friends are... fun and loving, I guess. They make you feel warm and happy. They add something extra to your life."

Tatiana nodded solemnly, placing the two bowls of broth on the table and sitting down opposite her.

"Tuck in," she said, taking a slurp of the hot broth herself, possibly to prove it was not poisoned.

Natasha followed suit, humming appreciatively. It was delicious. It reminded her a little of Laura's homemade vegetable pie.

"This is amazing," she said, earning another radiant smile from Tatiana.

They ate in silence for a while, the only sound in the small kitchen the scrape of spoons against bowls.

"How did you do it?" asked Tatiana suddenly. "How did you get out of the KGB?"

Natasha put down her spoon, looking up at Tatiana in surprise. Tatiana was staring at her again, an almost hungry look in her eyes.

"I went to the head of the KGB," said Natasha. "He said that if I could give him a compelling enough reason, he would release me from my contract. I told him that I wanted to see if I could become more than the killer they'd made me to be. He let me go."

They lapsed back into silence, Tatiana processing the new information.

After a while, once they had finished their food, she spoke again.

"Did you hear about what happened to the Red Room Academy?" said Tatiana.

Natasha's ears pricked up with interest. She had not heard anything about her former school since she had graduated. Honestly, she had tried her best not to think about her formative years.

"No," she said. "What happened?"

"The Red Room Academy was shut down three years ago after an incident," said Tatiana. "Some of the older girls rebelled and tried to escape. Vladimir tried to stop them, but they overpowered him and killed him."

Natasha felt a rush of adrenaline. Vladimir was dead – the man who had kidnapped her, who had shaped her life, who had been prepared to rape her at the age of 16, as he had done so many other girls before. She felt a rush of satisfaction.

Perhaps it was cruel of her to celebrate, but she believed Vladimir had got exactly what he had deserved.

"Did they succeed?" she asked. "Did the girls get away?"

Tatiana shook her head sadly.

"Some of them got quite far, but Madame B hunted them all down, one by one," said Tatiana. "She killed all the girls who had escaped, and then she went back to the school and killed all the remaining girls there too. The Red Room Academy was declared a failed project by the KGB and shut down. Madame B melted away."

Natasha's hands were shaking around her mug of tea. Horror rose in her throat, threatening to make her gag.

She suddenly felt a rush of intense hatred towards Madame B, raw and surprising and out of the blue.

Madame B had murdered all the Red Room Academy girls. They had been children; some of them must only have been babies. The young ones were innocent, defenceless. The older ones, yes, they were being shaped to be weapons, but they still would have been no match for Madame B.

They must have been terrified, seeing their teacher slaughtering their classmates, knowing that they would inevitably be next. They were children, some of them not even having started their training. They had not stood a chance.

She wanted to hunt down Madame B, wanted to torture her, hear her scream, make her pay for killing all those poor Red Room Academy girls who had been dealt such a wretched hand in life.

"I'll kill her," vowed Natasha, spitting out the words, hatred hardening her heart.

When she had joined SHIELD, she had consciously turned her back on cold-blooded assassinations. She decided she could make an exception, however, for Madame B.

"How can I repay my debt?" said Tatiana.

Natasha blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change in subject, but she quickly centred her thoughts, feeling some of her anger ebb away as she turned her attention back to why she had travelled to Kiev in the first place.

"I need you to get me as much information as you can about the Winter Soldier," she said. "I believe the KGB has files on him, possibly the Red Room Academy as well, if there are any records left. If you can gain access to any HYDRA archives, they might have intel too. I want anything and everything you can get your hands on. Do that, and your debt is cleared. I'll forget about the hospital fire, and you can forget about me."

Tatiana nodded, already pulling on her jacket and walking towards the door.

She pulled it open, before turning around to face her at the last moment, a sad smile on her face.

"I could never forget about you," she said softly.

She walked out.

The door swung shut, leaving more than just silence in its wake.

 

* * *

 

Tatiana returned six days later, dark circles under her eyes and smelling strongly of blood.

She handed Natasha a thick file, pages upon pages of documents about the Winter Soldier: photographs, medical reports, mission histories, records of disobedience and consequent corrections.

Natasha felt nauseous reading it, but gave Tatiana a quick, professional nod of appreciation. This was brilliant intelligence. Tatiana had delivered, as Natasha had known she would.

"Thank you," said Natasha. "Your debt is cleared. We're even now."

Tatiana stared at her for a long moment, her pale grey eyes searching Natasha's green ones intently. Finally, she sighed, apparently finding something in Natasha's soul that made her sad.

"You're still angry about what I told you about Madame B and the Red Room Academy," she said glumly.

Natasha gritted her teeth, not bothering to deny it.

"If you intend to find Madame B, you'll fail," said Tatiana. "I tried myself."

Natasha slid the folder on the Winter Soldier into her bag, slinging it over her shoulder.

"We'll see," she said.

 

* * *

 

It was a little over a month later when Steve was finally discharged from hospital.

After taking him out for a celebratory lunch, Natasha, Sam and Steve made their way to Nick's 'grave', where he had told them to meet in a coded message earlier in the day.

Tatiana's file on the Winter Soldier sat in Natasha's bag. She had not yet told Steve about its existence, having not wanted him to discharge himself from hospital before he was fully healed.

Now that he was out, she just had to find the right moment to tell him. It would be difficult for him, she knew, to read about the horrors that Bucky had been subjected to. Natasha herself had read the file, translating the parts that had been written in Russian. It made grim reading.

Steve and Sam walked forwards, coming to a stop in front of Nick's grave and looking down at the inscription. Natasha hung back, staying in the shade of a nearby tree as she watched the two men.

Steady footsteps announced the arrival of Nick, looking very different in sunglasses and civilian clothing. He looked nothing like Nick Fury which, Natasha supposed, was rather the point.

"So," said Nick, nodding to where Steve was staring down at his grave. "You've experienced this sort of thing before."

Steve shrugged.

"You get used to it," he said.

"We've been data mining HYDRA's files," said Nick. "Looks like a lot of rats didn't go down with the ship. I'm headed to Europe tonight. Wanted to ask if you'd come."

Steve shook his head immediately, giving Nick a polite smile.

"There's something I've got to do first," he said.

Nick nodded, before turning to Sam.

"How about you, Wilson?" he said. "I could use a man with your abilities."

"I'm more of a soldier than a spy," said Sam.

Nick sighed, as if he had been expecting as much.

"Alright then," he said.

Natasha watched as the former Director of SHIELD shook hands with Steve and Sam.

"If anybody asks for me, tell them they can find me, right here," said Nick, nodding down at his grave before smiling and walking away.

Natasha laughed softly. Nick had always had a flare for the dramatic. Pulling the Winter Soldier report out of her bag, she took a deep breath and walked forwards.

"You should be honoured," she said. "That's about as close as he gets to saying thank you."

"You not going with him?" asked Steve, looking slightly surprised.

"No," she said softly, placing Tatiana's meticulously put-together file on the Winter Soldier in Steve's hands. His eyes widened when he realised what it was. "I called in a few favours from Kiev."

Sam peeked over Steve's shoulder, his eyebrows shooting up when he saw the contents of the file. A photograph of Bucky Barnes stared up from the bottom corner.

"You're going after him?" asked Sam.

Steve turned to Sam, looking torn.

"Yeah," he said. "But you don't have to come with me."

Sam met his gaze head on, lifting his chin defiantly.

"I know," he said. "When do we start?"

Steve let out a sigh of relief, looking incredibly thankful that Sam was willing to join them in the search for Bucky.

"Right away," said Steve. "Bucky's been kidnapped. They're probably torturing and brainwashing him right now. We need to save him."

"I get that, and I want to help," said Sam. "But how are you going to do this? SHIELD is gone."

Natasha shook her head, taken once again by the strong sense of conviction that had led her to go to Kiev in the first place.

"No," she said. "The organisation may be gone, but in our hearts and minds, we're still SHIELD agents. We'll carry on. We'll find Bucky and we'll save him. I'll call Clint. If I explain what's going on, I'm sure he'll want to help."

Steve nodded, rubbing a hand roughly across his face, but not before Natasha saw the tears glistening on his eyelashes.

"Is this even possible?" he asked quietly. "For just the three of us and Clint to find Bucky? He could be anywhere in the world."

Natasha reached out a hand, rubbing his back gently. She thought about what she would do if this was her best friend, if she had a chance to save Elena or James or Clint. She would do anything, she realised. She would scour the whole world if that was what it took.

Before he had had his mind raped and turned against his will into the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes had been a good man. That good man was underneath there somewhere, refusing to rape Natasha in Madame B's bedroom and saving Steve from the depths of the Potomac River.

He was somewhere out there, begging to be saved.

Natasha fixed Steve with a hard stare, meeting his gaze and pouring every ounce of feeling into her next words.

"We'll find a way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DIVERGENCE FROM CANON: So far, Fearless has been generally canon-compliant. As you can probably tell from the way this chapter ended, from this point onwards Fearless _completely_ diverges from canon.
> 
> FORESHADOWING: In the film Captain America: The Winter Soldier (and in this chapter), Natasha says that she got information about the Winter Soldier by calling in a favour in Kiev. This was set up in Fearless many chapters ago... Way back in chapter 11 (The Hospital Fire) Natasha saved Tatiana's life, triggering Tatiana to declare that she owed Natasha a debt. Then, in chapter 16 (The Ivanov Job) it was mentioned that Tatiana had settled in Kiev. Well done if you picked up on this foreshadowing!
> 
> THE RED ROOM ACADEMY / MADAME B: Some of you questioned way back in the "Graduation" chapter whether we'd be hearing from the Red Room Academy/Madame B again. We heard about them in this chapter, and I can confirm that this is NOT the last we'll be hearing of Madame B. That bitch is still out there...
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "I Spy" and will see our heroes desperately searching for Bucky. What they find will come as a shock...
> 
> CHAPTER UPDATES: Sorry this chapter was a little later than usual. It took a while to write (it is 35k words long!) and then I was away at a conference in London. The next chapter may also be a little delayed because I'm going on holiday to Spain for a week (woohoo)! After that though, I should be returning to my usual posting schedule of one chapter per week. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> THANK YOU: Thank you for all your wonderful comments! I love hearing from you guys <3 Some of you have also been sending me lovely anonymous "messages" and "asks" on [my Tumblr](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/), so thank you so much for that too! Feel free to comment/message me with your thoughts or just to flail at me. I'll flail back <3


	32. I Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, [chapter art](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/162245315486/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter) <3

2014 – Aged 30

 

* * *

 

Clint arrived at Natasha's flat the following day.

The previous evening, Natasha had called him and explained everything: how the Winter Soldier was actually Bucky Barnes, how he had been kidnapped by HYDRA and how he was being brainwashed.

Natasha had been a little worried that Clint might have thought she had finally cracked, but he had listened quietly throughout her whole explanation and then immediately offered to help.

Natasha had let out a sigh of relief. She wondered if Clint felt a particular affinity with Bucky, having himself been brainwashed by Loki two years previously. Clint knew what it was like to have his mind twisted into something unrecognisable. Perhaps he could empathise with Bucky more than any of them.

He arrived in the morning, hugging Natasha and Steve and politely introducing himself to Sam. The four of them were currently all squashed into Natasha's flat, huddled around a computer screen as Natasha played the CCTV footage of Bucky's abduction on the banks of the Potomac River.

They watched in sombre silence as the Bucky on the screen staggered along the muddy river bank, clutching at his head as though it was hurting. He was shaking his head, his mouth working furiously as if he was talking to himself. Four men clad in black suddenly emerged from the trees, approaching him from behind before shooting him with a Taser. He fell to the ground, twitching and writhing, before finally going still, slumped face-down in the mud. The four HYDRA agents grabbed him roughly by the arms and legs, dragging him unceremoniously up the river bank and out of sight.

"Shit," whispered Clint, looking appalled as the CCTV footage came to an end. "We need to save that poor bastard."

The others nodded, the mood in the room grim and serious.

"HYDRA will no doubt have re-brainwashed him and turned him back into the Winter Soldier by now," said Natasha. "But we know the real Bucky is still in there. We need to find him before HYDRA kills him or forces him to commit further atrocities."

"We need get out there and search for him," said Steve, getting to his feet.

He crossed the room in a hurry, his eyes wide and his entire body shaking.

Natasha shook her head, forcing herself to remain calm.

"Steve," she said softly. "Bucky was kidnapped almost a month ago, he could be anywhere in the world by now, we're not going to just bump into him on the street. We need a strategy."

Steve turned to her in frustration, his body tense with barely-contained panic.

"We can't just do nothing!" he burst out angrily. "We've been too slow already!"

"Calm down, Steve," said Sam. "Having a strategy isn't slow, it's smart."

They lapsed into silence. Natasha methodically went through everything she knew about the Winter Soldier in her mind, carefully turning over facts in search of any morsel of information that could prove useful.

The notes in Tatiana's folder had revealed much about the medical procedures that the KGB and HYDRA used to brainwash the Winter Soldier, as well as how to place him into cryofreeze. They also revealed details about his previous missions, his successes, his failures and subsequent 're-programming', each iteration of him being colder and more brutal than the one preceding it.

There were no notes on where they kept him between missions, however, or on the transport links that they used.

Transport...

Natasha sat upright, her heart beat quickening.

"When HYDRA transported Bucky from Russia to the US, they reported the move over a defunct SHIELD comms channel," she said. "After the Odessa mission, Phil set up flags in SHIELD's system to pick up on any mention of the Winter Soldier or an assassin with a metal arm."

Adrenaline surged through her system. This could be it. This could be how they could save Bucky Barnes.

"So what, we just wait for Phil's flags to be activated again next time they move him?" said Steve.

Clint shook his head immediately.

"That's too sloppy," he said. "If they don't use the keywords  _Winter Soldier_  or  _metal arm_ then we'd miss the transmissions. In order to avoid missing  _any_  of their transmissions, then we need someone to monitor the defunct channels at all times. And I mean  _all_ times, we need to be listening every hour of every day. We don't know where they're based. Just because it's the middle of the night here, it doesn't mean it will be wherever they're holding him."

Natasha nodded in agreement.

"We could keep tabs on the police too," she said. "Keep track of anything that could be related to HYDRA."

"So, we have two strategies?" said Sam. "Listen in to SHIELD's defunct comms channels, and follow up on any police leads on HYDRA?"

Natasha nodded.

"I think that gives us the best chance of finding Bucky," she said.

The mood in the room instantly lifted, the four of them feeling energised by having a proper plan to follow.

"If we're going to listen in to the comms channels at all times, then we're going to need laptops to scan all the different frequencies," said Steve. "We can take it in shifts so that there's always someone listening in."

Clint grinned, reaching down and unzipping his suitcase. Natasha watched, her eyebrows shooting up as Clint pulled out about 12 laptops stamped with the SHIELD insignia. Sam smothered a laugh as Clint laid out the stolen laptops on the dining room table.

"What?" said Clint, looking defensive. "Hey, SHIELD doesn't technically exist anymore, so it's not  _really_ stealing."

Natasha snorted.

"I don't think that's how it works, Clint," she said.

There was no malice behind her words though. She was secretly very pleased that Clint had had the foresight to properly equip them for their self-assigned mission.

Steve looked at the contraband laptops with an expression of approval.

Natasha sighed. Captain America approving of stealing; what was happening?

"Right," she said. "Let's get started."

 

* * *

 

Progress was painfully slow.

It was 4 months later and they were still no closer to finding Bucky Barnes.

The task they had embarked upon felt enormous. One of them needed to be listening to the comms channels at all times, they spent hours every day sifting through police reports for anything potentially relating to HYDRA, and on top of that there was eating and sleeping and all the things they needed to do to survive as human beings.

The sheer amount of information they had to process and the vast scope of their operation was overwhelming. It felt as though they were sifting through an entire beach, one grain of sand at a time.

Clint went back home for the weekend once every two weeks, something that the others did not attempt to stop. He had a family; they could not ask him to stay away from them. He was already doing so much to help the cause by volunteering the time he felt he could spare.

Still, the lack of progress was frustrating.

The defunct SHIELD comms channels had remained silent the entire time, and there had only been 5 police reports relating to HYDRA. They had shadowed these police operations, keeping an eye on things and then thoroughly searching the locations once the police had left, but to no avail.

None of the locations had contained Bucky Barnes or any of the equipment needed to brainwash him or keep him in cryofreeze.

Although she would never admit it in front of Steve, Natasha was starting to lose hope.

Working with Steve was heartbreaking. Every day he seemed to get more and more agitated by the lack of progress. He broke down every few days, shutting himself away in the guest bedroom that he and Sam shared and sobbing quietly. Natasha's heart ached for him. Every day, it seemed that finding Bucky was becoming more and more unlikely, and it hurt to see Steve in such pain because of it.

On this particular night, it was Natasha's turn to listen to the SHIELD comms channels. She settled down in front of the web of interconnected laptops, placing the headphones on her head at the same moment that Sam took his off, so that there would not be a period of time when the channels were left unattended.

"Goodnight, Sam," she said.

Sam stretched, his back popping as he worked out all the kinks that had formed from sitting still for 6 hours.

"Goodnight, Nat," he said. "Maybe tonight will be the night."

Natasha smiled, giving him a little wave as he made his way back to his and Steve's borrowed bedroom. Every morning he declared that today might be the day, and every night he said that tonight might be the night.

She was glad for his positivity. It motivated her, kept her going when she felt like giving up. He did not seem to be disheartened by their lack of progress, doing the job with as much faithful diligence now as he had done four months ago when their self-assigned mission had begun.

The flat fell into silence as the three men drifted off to sleep, Steve and Sam sharing her spare bedroom and Clint sleeping on a sofa bed that they had squeezed into her bedroom.

Clint had arrived that afternoon, having spent the weekend with Laura and the children. One time, about a month ago, Natasha had asked if he wanted to spend longer at home. Clint had simply fixed her with a look that brooked no argument and shook his head firmly, saying that fortnightly weekend visits were sufficient, and that he would not be able to sit at home for any longer period of time, knowing that an innocent man was out there somewhere, brainwashed and suffering.

Natasha was thinking about this memory when a series of tones began sounding in her ears.

She froze.

In four months – four long, frustrating months – they had not heard a single sound over the defunct SHIELD comms channels.

"Wake up!" she shouted, her fingers flying over the laptop keys to find the exact channel that had been activated.

Hurried footsteps stumbled into the room as Steve, Sam and Clint rushed in, their eyes scrunched up and their hair askew from sleep.

Natasha ignored them, her eyes fixed on the screen as she eliminated channels one by one until, finally, she came to the one that had suddenly been activated, the same series of beeps flashing across the screen.

Steve was suddenly by her side, leaning in close to the screen and staring at where the beeps were being displayed as an audio waveform.

"What is it?" he demanded. "Morse code?"

Natasha shook her head, listening carefully. It was not Morse code, nor any other code that she knew. It sounded almost as if someone was simply testing that the channel was working properly.

"I don't think this is the message," she said. "I think they're just checking that it's working before sending the real message."

She pulled the headphones out of the laptop's USB port, allowing the sound to play out of the laptop's inbuilt speakers so that they could all listen in. The four of them stared at the screen intently, jumping when a voice sudden spoke over the supposedly defunct channel.

"Transmission imminent."

Steve gripped the side of Natasha's chair so tightly that the wood snapped under his fingers. He jumped, having not realised the tightness of his own grip. Natasha hushed him when he tried to apologise, desperate not to miss the transmission when it came.

"Text file sent."

A small icon of a folder appeared on the screen, glowing softly in the darkness of the living room. Natasha moved the mouse over the icon, her hand shaking slightly as she clicked on it.

A .txt file opened on the screen, displaying a message that instantly sent a jolt of dread down Natasha's spine.

It was the exact same message as what had been sent just before HYDRA's attempted takeover.

**Regarding: Winter Soldier.**

**Status: In Transit.**

"You need to trace the source and destination of the file," said Clint suddenly. "Before the transmission ends."

Natasha furiously inputted several lines of code into the laptop, triggering the tracking algorithm that had successfully led them to Camp Lehigh from the Apple Store five months previously.

To her dismay, however, it seemed that HYDRA had learnt from that particular mistake, as instead of returning two locations – one for the source and one for the destination – the screen was suddenly filled with hundreds of lines of proxy locations that must have been built as part of a network.

Natasha stared at the screen helplessly. Two of those locations were the correct ones, but there was no way to tell which ones out of the hundreds that were flashing up.

"Transmission ended."

The locations disappeared from the screen.

They sat in stunned silence, dazed, horrified expressions on their faces.

"Shit," said Natasha. "Fucking  _shit_."

She brushed away angry tears, suddenly overwhelmed with having come so close to having a breakthrough only to be thwarted once again. Bucky Barnes had slipped through their fingers. They had lost him.

"Hold up," said Clint, laying a firm hand on her shoulder. "Let's stay calm. What did the message mean?"

Natasha curled her shaking hands into fists, trying to steady her breathing.

"It means that they're moving Bucky from one location to another," she said. "The last time we heard that message was when the KGB handed him over to HYDRA."

Clint nodded thoughtfully.

"Maybe that means that now HYDRA are handing him back to the KGB?" he said. "That would narrow down our search area to Eastern Europe, probably Russia."

Natasha buried her face in her hands, tears trickling between them as her shoulders slumped helplessly.

"We can't assume that. The only chance we had was tracking the source and destination of that transmission, and we failed." She let out a small sob, turning to Steve, who was still crouched down next to her chair. "Steve, I'm so sorry. We messed up."

She expected Steve to look upset, devastated even, but instead he had his head cocked to the side, a thoughtful expression dawning on his face.

Natasha sat up, wiping her face of tears using the sleeve of her jumper.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Remember when Loki kidnapped Clint and used him to steal iridium?" said Steve.

Clint winced.

"Yeah," said Natasha, tactfully not drawing attention to Clint's discomfort. "What about it?"

"We found Loki in Stuttgart with the help of facial recognition technology," said Steve. "We scanned all the cameras in the world and eventually we found him. If Bucky's being transported, at some point they're going to drive past cameras. And even if the vehicle they're transporting him in has blacked out windows, eventually they'll have to take him  _out_  of the car. We could scan the world's cameras and search for his face."

Sam nodded slowly.

"Yeah," he said. "That sounds like it could work."

"That was when we had all of SHIELD's technological resources behind us," sighed Clint. "All we have now is a bunch of stolen laptops. The idea could work, but we don't have the resources."

Natasha stood up suddenly, her blood pounding in her ears as sweet, long-overdue realisation hit her. She could not believe she had not thought of it sooner. She had been so blind.

"I know who can help," she said.

"Who?" demanded three voices simultaneously.

Ignoring the question, she turned to Clint.

"How do you manage to travel between here and your house so quickly?" she asked. "Did you steal a Quinjet?"

Clint blushed bright red, opening and closing his mouth several times before clearing his throat.

"I didn't  _steal_ it," he blustered. "I just... kept it after SHIELD fell."

Sam let out a snort of laughter, giving Clint a clap on the back as he shook his head. Clint shifted uncomfortably under the attention, glaring at Natasha.

"Why?" he said. "Shouldn't we be focusing on saving Bucky right now?"

Natasha nodded.

"That's exactly what we're going to do," she said. "Step one: You're going to fly us to New York in the Quinjet."

 

* * *

 

Tony was tinkering in the basement of Stark Tower with Dummy.

Dummy was a large robotic arm, the first ever artificially intelligent being that Tony had created.

Dummy was nowhere near as sophisticated as JARVIS; there were bugs in his code, he made mistakes, he delighted in playing practical jokes. In terms of IQ, he was similar to a 7-year old.

Tony loved all of Dummy's flaws.

To Tony, Dummy's eccentricities were not bugs, they were his personality. So even though he could easily 'fix' Dummy – make him smarter, more capable, a better assistant – he did not do so. To do so would be to kill the Dummy he knew and loved.

He could easily replace the equipment and supplies that Dummy inevitably broke with his curious mind and clumsy motor skills. He could not replace Dummy. Dummy was like his child; his little boy.

It was for this reason that, when Dummy turned around a little too enthusiastically and knocked over the pile of test tubes he was supposed to be picking up, Tony did not become angry, and instead simply laughed.

"You keep that up and I'm going to donate you to the local technical college," said Tony.

Dummy chirped cheerfully in reply.

It was a false threat and they both knew it.

Tony patted Dummy on the top of his arm (his head, as it were) and stooped down to check that none of the broken glass had punctured Dummy's rubber wheels.

"Sir," said JARVIS, his cool British voice cutting through the air.

Tony could not remember why he had made JARVIS sound British. He vaguely remembered being drunk when he had coded that in.

"What's up, buddy?" he asked, reaching for a fresh set of test tubes.

"A SHIELD Quinjet is heading towards New York City," said JARVIS. "Its trajectory suggests that it is heading for Stark Tower. Looking at its current speed, I estimate arrival in less than 5 minutes."

Tony swore under his breath. He had never been fond of authority. He had a natural suspicion of large organisations. And since the recent revelation that SHIELD had been infiltrated by HYDRA and acted as their smokescreen for almost 70 years, he was more distrustful than ever, particularly of SHIELD.

"SHIELD was supposed to have been disbanded after shit went down in Washington DC," said Tony. "Ask them to identify themselves immediately."

There was a series of beeps as JARVIS hacked into the SHIELD Quinjet's communications frequency, the audio playing over the basement's speakers for Tony's benefit.

"You are approaching restricted airspace," said JARVIS, his tone sharp and slightly threatening. "Identify yourselves immediately."

A female voice replied.

"This is Natasha Romanoff," she said. "I'm with Clint Barton, Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson. Please let us proceed, we need your help."

Tony threw his hands up joyfully.

"The red devil, bird brain and Capsicle!" he grinned. "I love a get-together. Come round later. I'll ask if you guys can bunk over, we can have a sleepover and plait Steve's hair–"

Steve's voice cut across him sharply.

"Quit fooling around, Tony," he said. "We have an urgent situation here."

The smile slid of Tony's face. Steve sounded stressed and uptight, even for Steve. He pulled off his lab gloves and strode towards the lift, patting Dummy reassuringly as he went past.

"Land on the roof and head down to the lounge," he said, entering the lift and pressing the button to the appropriate floor. "I'll meet you there."

The comms channel closed with a quiet click, leaving Tony standing in silence as the lift slid smoothly up to the lounge level. He chewed on his bottom lip.

He wondered what Natasha and the others needed. He knew three out of the four people: Natasha, Steve and Clint. They had all been SHIELD agents, he realised. His stomach clenched uneasily. Perhaps this was to do with HYDRA.

The lift doors opened on the lounge level. He walked out onto the plush carpet just as footsteps jogged down the stairs from the roof. He came to a stop as Natasha, Steve, Clint and a black man Tony had never seen before entered the room.

His eyes zeroed in on the newcomer. He had an open face and warm eyes, although his current expression was one of anxiety. Tony sensed, instinctively, that he could be trusted.

"Who's the new guy?" said Tony, by way of greeting.

The newcomer gave him a wide smile and a wink.

"I'm the handsome guy who helped Captain America in Washington DC while you sat on your ass in New York," said the man, his eyes twinkling. "Sam Wilson."

Tony grinned.

"I like this guy already," he declared, before turning his attention to the others, who looked decidedly stressed. "You guys fancy a drink?"

"No," said Natasha, getting straight to the point. "We need JARVIS' help."

Tony raised his eyebrows, confused and wary but hiding it behind another layer of humour.

"And there I was, thinking you were here to see me," he pouted.

Steve stepped forward, his large blue eyes meeting Tony's brown ones. Tony's gaze swept over him quickly, immediately picking up on Steve's tense posture and slightly manic energy. Out of everyone in the room, Steve was by far the most stressed.

"Tony, please," said Steve, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly. "HYDRA is transporting Bucky – the Winter Soldier – right now. He's  _brainwashed_ , Tony. They're torturing him. We need JARVIS to do a sweep of all the world's cameras. Can it do that?"

Tony cleared his throat.

"First up, JARVIS is a  _he_ , not an  _it_ ," said Tony. "Second,  _hello_ , he was created by the world's greatest genius,  _me_ , so of course he can do that. He's the most intelligent artificial intelligence ever. What you're asking him to do is basically just play I Spy."

Clint frowned, looking confused.

"That's not how I Spy works," he muttered.

Tony waved his hand, brushing away Clint's protestations about the exact rules of I Spy.

"Anyway," said Tony, his expression becoming more serious. "I'm perfectly happy to let JARVIS do that for you, but really you need to ask  _him_. He is his own person; it's his choice."

Steve looked around wildly, his eyes finally falling on one of JARVIS' cameras in the ceiling. He turned to the camera beseechingly, bringing up his hands and placing them over his heart as he implored JARVIS.

"Please, JARVIS, please," he said. "Will you help us? Bucky is a victim. He's in danger. We need to save him."

The AI's reply was immediate.

"I have already directed all my non-essential processing power to scanning the world's cameras," said JARVIS. "I will let you know immediately if and when I have a match."

Steve let out a shaky sigh of relief.

"Thank you," he said, before taking off across the room towards the balcony, twitching nervously.

After a moment's hesitation, Sam jogged after him, catching up and talking to him in soft, soothing tones.

Tony, Natasha and Clint watched as they disappeared out onto the balcony.

"What happens now?" asked Clint.

Tony sighed, eyeing a bottle of whiskey at the bar longingly before turning his back on it.

"Now we wait," he said.

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, Natasha and Clint were still sat on the sofas in Tony's lounge. Tony himself had excused himself, saying he had been up doing science in the basement for the last 47 hours and that he should probably get some sleep. Steve and Sam were still stood out on the balcony, talking quietly in the cool night air.

Clint looked out of the window at the men on the balcony, a concerned expression on his face.

"Do you think Steve's going to be alright?" he asked.

Natasha's gaze flicked out onto the balcony as well, eyeing up Steve who was bouncing on his heels as he talked to Sam. His fingers were tapping constantly on his legs.

Natasha sighed.

"He'll be alright once we find Bucky," she said. "He's raring to go and save him. What he's struggling with is the not knowing where he is or what to do."

Clint shook his head sadly, his eyes sliding back into the room and resting on the carpet.

"Can you imagine it?" he said quietly. "Can you imagine what it's like to have your best friend transformed into a notorious killer?"

Natasha was silent.

She thought about Elena. She thought about how many people Elena would have killed by now, if she had lived.

She sighed.

"I can imagine it," she said. "I just don't like to."

Clint turned to her in confusion, his eyebrows pulled down and his lips forming a question, when an alarm blared once through the speakers, loud and urgent.

Steve and Sam ran back inside the building, Steve clutching his shield as if in preparation for a fight.

"I have just got a hit in Bucharest, Romania," said JARVIS sharply. "James Buchanan Barnes appears to be unconscious. He has just been moved from a van into a mansion on the outskirts of the city."

A television turned on on the wall of the lounge, playing the live satellite footage. Bucky was slumped unconscious, being dragged by two large men into the back of an imposing-looking mansion. The mansion's back doors were flung open and Bucky was dragged inside. The doors slammed shut, hiding Bucky Barnes from the world once more.

"What is that building?" asked Steve urgently, his eyes wide and fixed on the screen.

"It is a private residence," said JARVIS. "Records show that it is owned by an individual named Miss Svetlana Bagrova."

"Does that name mean anything to anyone?" asked Sam.

They all shook their heads. Natasha had never heard of Svetlana Bagrova, although she was not sure if that was a good sign or a bad sign. It could be that she was an innocent homeowner out of town. Or it could be that she was someone so ruthless and efficient that there was no one left alive to spread her name.

"Accessing records," said JARVIS.

Natasha watched the screen with interest as JARVIS hacked into what looked like a Romanian government database containing residents' ID information. Quickly finding Svetlana Bagrova's records, he pulled them up on the screen.

Natasha's breath caught in her throat. It was difficult to breathe. It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. She felt dizzy, sick.

_No._

Svetlana Bagrova's face filled the screen, those beautiful blue orbs staring out at her, the hair just as perfectly coifed as Natasha remembered it.

Madame B.

Svetlana Bagrova was Madame B.

The world swam in front of Natasha's eyes. She staggered, for a moment feeling as though she might faint. Clint was by her side immediately, his arm wrapping around her waist, holding her up. He stepped in front of her.

Natasha tried to control her breathing as she forced herself to look into Clint's concerned eyes rather than Madame B's mocking ones. Her heart beat hammered in her chest, her pulse racing, not slowing down, like a train thundering down the tracks.

"What's wrong?" said Clint, giving her a little shake.

Natasha took several deep breaths, closing her eyes as she tried to turn her mind to marble. It did not work. She could not hear the music. Instead, she saw Madame B watching her and Tatiana as they danced, the only ones left after 24 hours of torturous, continual ballet.

A small sob escaped her lips. Her cheeks were wet.

"It's Madame B," she said, her voice cracking. "The woman who ran the Red Room Academy. Madame B has Bucky."

"Some old lady?" said Sam. "That's not so bad."

Natasha's eyes snapped open.

"No!" she snarled, her ferocity causing Sam to flinch. "You don't understand. You can't underestimate her. She trained me. She's deadly. Just because she's an old woman doesn't mean she's not lethal. She could kill us all without breaking a sweat. Underestimate her and you die."

Sam nodded slowly.

"OK," he said. "Not a regular old lady then."

"We need to go there now," said Steve. "If Madame B is as dangerous as Natasha says, we need to save Bucky faster than ever."

They all nodded in agreement, immediately heading for the stairs that led to the roof.

"Thank you for your help, JARVIS," said Steve. "We couldn't have done this without you."

The lights blinked once, possibly JARVIS' version of a polite head nod.

"You're welcome," he said.

They reached the roof, hurrying over the tarmac to the Quinjet and climbing up the ramp as it lowered.

Steve and Sam took the two front seats. Natasha and Clint were just strapping themselves into two of the back seats when Clint's mobile phone began to ring.

Natasha recognised the ring tone immediately. It was Laura's ring tone. Clint had personalised it so that he would always know when she was calling.

The Quinjet's engines were starting up. Clint looked torn as he sat with his seat belt buckle in one hand, the other hovering over his jacket pocket.

"Wait a second!" he shouted, over the sound of the engines.

The engines powered down. Clint thrust his hand into his pocket, pulling out his phone and answering it.

"Hey sweetheart," he said softly. "What's up?"

He got up, walking to the very back of the Quinjet to give himself some privacy.

Natasha eyed her watch anxiously. The flight from New York to Bucharest was not a short one. They needed to leave as quickly as possible in order to reach Bucky before it was too late.

She did not want to think about what Madame B would do to him.

About 5 minutes later, Clint returned to his seat, sitting down heavily. Natasha immediately noticed his pale face and shaking hands.

He did not reach for his seat belt.

"What's wrong?" asked Natasha.

Clint blinked and stared at her, as if he had only just noticed she was there.

"Nothing," he said. "It's nothing bad. It's wonderful. Laura's pregnant with Baby Barton number 3."

Natasha stared at him, before breaking into a smile, reaching over and giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

"That's amazing news," she said softly. "Congratulations."

Clint let out a shaky breath, smiling back as he wiped away tears.

"I'm going to be a father again," he said, and despite the desperate situation with Bucky and Madame B, Natasha could hear the joy in Clint's voice.

"Listen," she said. "This mission is a dangerous one. The brainwashed Winter Soldier and Madame B are not opponents to be scoffed at. If you want out of this mission, that's OK, we understand."

Steve and Sam nodded from where they had been listening from the front of the plane.

"You have a family," said Steve. "Me, Sam, Natasha, we're all single. But you have a wife and kids. You've got to think about them. If you don't want to be part of this mission, just say the word. It's totally fine."

"Can I have a minute to think about this?" said Clint, the anguish of indecision written plain across his features.

"Sure," said Steve.

Clint thanked them and walked to the back of the Quinjet, pacing backwards and forwards as he muttered to himself. Natasha watched him, watching his forehead crease as he wrestled with the problem.

On the one hand, he wanted to save Bucky from Madame B. He knew more than any of them the horrors of brainwashing. On the other hand, he had a family, a growing family, to think about. The urge to be with Laura right now must be overwhelming, Natasha imagined.

After several more minutes of pacing, Clint returned.

He sat down, strapping up his seat belt.

"I'm coming," he said.

Natasha fixed him with a solemn stare.

"Are you sure?" she said. "If you come on this mission, there's no guarantee you'll come back alive."

Clint jutted out his jaw, a defiant gesture that Natasha had seen many times before, both in Clint and more recently in his daughter Lila, when the little girl had refused to eat sprouts.

"I want to make the world a safer place for my kids," said Clint. "That means neutralising threats, like un-brainwashing Bucky and dealing with Madame B. What kind of father would I be if I turned my back on the situation, knowing they were a danger to the world? To my kids' world? I'm coming."

There was a long moment of silence, and finally Natasha nodded.

Steve turned back to the Quinjet's controls and inputted the coordinates for Bucharest.

The plane lifted into the night sky.

Outside the window, the moon was full and bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FORESHADOWING: In Chapter 28 (Avengers), I included an original scene that wasn't in the film, between Natasha and JARVIS. Did any of you wonder why I stuck that in? Well done if you questioned it. As you can see from this chapter, I made sure that Natasha and JARVIS met back then so that she would know she could ask him for help when this chapter came along. JARVIS is perfectly equipped to scan all the world's cameras, and he did so beautifully.
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be titled "The Killer You Made Me To Be" and in it Natasha and the team will try to rescue Bucky from Madame B's imprisonment. Will he remember them? What will Madame B have in store for them? And will Natasha prove that she is more than the killer the KGB made her to be?
> 
> 2 MORE CHAPTERS: Wow. I can't believe there are only 2 chapters left. I'm actually really sad that it's ending because I've fallen in love with this story, plus sharing it with you guys is the best feeling. I hope you enjoy the final 2 chapters.
> 
> THANK YOU: Thank you for all your comments and kudos <3


	33. The Killer You Made Me To Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, [chapter art](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/162442776746/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter)!

2014 – Aged 30

 

* * *

 

They landed just outside Bucharest.

They brought down the Quinjet as close to Madame B's mansion as they dared, the sound suppressors turned up to the max to minimise the noise of the engines.

Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam were silent as they loaded themselves up with weaponry: guns, night-night pistols, smoke grenades and super-strong handcuffs designed for individuals with enhanced strength. Natasha slipped a knife into her pocket.

Once they were all fully equipped, they paused, taking a moment to gather their thoughts and centre their nerves.

They were silent. The time for talking was over. Now, it was time for action.

During the flight, they had spoken in-depth about the mission. Saving Bucky was the top priority; they were to extract him, alive, with minimal injuries. Detaining Madame B was the secondary objective; lethal force was permitted, but only as a last resort.

The ramp at the back of the Quinjet lowered slowly.

Natasha and the others walked down it onto the grass of the field that ran parallel to the mansion.

It was not a good position, tactically. The mansion was surrounded on all sides by wide open fields, leaving them with no way to approach unseen. No doubt Madame B had chosen the mansion with this in mind.

The night was dark, warm and still, the leaves on the trees barely moving, not making a sound. An oppressive sort of humidity stifled them.

It was eerily quiet.

"OK," whispered Steve. "Let's go."

"Remember, don't underestimate Madame B," muttered Natasha, her muscles already taut with tension.

The four of them ran across the field, keeping low and moving quickly to make it more difficult for a sniper to pick them off. Natasha half-expected the sharp crack of a rifle to sound the moment they began moving, but it did not come.

They arrived at the mansion without incident, which in itself set alarm bells ringing in Natasha's head.

Madame B would never be so careless as to leave herself without protection. If they made it into her house, it was because she wanted them to be there.

"Be careful," she whispered, her finger wrapping around the trigger of her night-night pistol.

The four of them made their way up the mansion driveway, reaching the front door and immediately fanning out on either side of it in case it was rigged to explode.

Steve cautiously stepped forward, holding his shield in front of him as he reached out towards the ornate door knob.

The front door swung open easily at his touch.

After waiting several seconds for an explosion that did not come, they entered the mansion, weapons raised.

The silence became even more stifling as the front door shut behind them, cutting off the sounds of the outside.

The interior of the mansion was beautiful but strangely sterile; it lacked any warmth or personal touches. The ceilings were high, making the already spacious rooms seem even larger and somewhat colder.

It reminded Natasha of the Red Room Academy.

She shivered.

As they walked further into the mansion, she noticed that there were cracks in the walls, dust on the ageing chandeliers. It was a place falling into ruin, perhaps grand once upon a time but no longer; a ghost of the past.

They crept forward, heading towards a sweeping staircase that soared upwards onto the upper levels. A strange sound floated down the stairs, rhythmical and tinkering.

As they drew closer, Natasha's stomach clenched. The piano music echoed eerily down the stairs – steady and achingly, horribly familiar.

_Up, turn, arms up, step and touch, step and touch, twirl..._

Natasha felt her mind slowly turning to marble as the ballet music washed over her. Her legs stung with phantom pains, the echo of a memory. She remembered the way Madame B had smiled as she had tortured the girls with ballet for 24 hours.

The piano music was not the perfect recording that Natasha and her classmates had been subjected to aged 17, however; it was uneven in places, the wrong note filtering through occasionally. In other words, not a recording at all, but live.

"They're here," whispered Natasha.

Their grips on their weapons tightened fractionally, all of them suddenly that little bit more alert and primed for action.

They made their way to the staircase, climbing the steps towards the source of the music. They reached the next floor and paused, trying to ascertain whether the music was coming from this level or the next one up. The echoey acoustics of the mansion made it difficult to tell.

"This way," said Steve after a moment, pointing down the corridor of the floor they were on.

They moved silently down the corridor, passing by dusty side rooms filled with broken and ageing furniture. Oil lamps hung along the corridors, the only source of light in the slowly decaying building.

Their footsteps were muffled by a layer of dust that had settled on top of the wooden floorboards. Natasha's heart hammered against the inside of her ribs, intense anxiety gnawing at her stomach as they approached the source of the music. Madame B must know that they were here by now. Why had she allowed them in? What was her end game?

They turned the corner.

Natasha gasped.

The Winter Soldier was standing at the other end of the corridor, stood in front of an open door from which the piano music was pouring.

He was stood stock still, his eyes glazed over and empty. He made no movements to suggest he had even registered their presence. He was like a husk, a body with his insides scooped out and discarded.

"Bucky?" said Steve.

The Winter Soldier did not move.

"Bucky, can you hear me?"

The Winter Soldier did not react. There was no movement in his muscles, no flicker of recognition on his features.

Steve stepped forwards, and that was what did it.

It was like flicking a switch. The Winter Soldier sprang into action, leaping forwards and sprinting towards them, both his flesh and metal hands curled into fists.

He collided with Steve violently, knocking him backwards and into the wall. Steve's head cracked against the plaster, causing him to stagger momentarily. The Winter Soldier drew his fist back, ready to drive it into Steve's skull.

Clint leapt forwards, aiming his night-night pistol at the Winter Soldier. The night-night pistols were loaded with chemicals rather than bullets, designed to simply knock the target unconscious rather than cause physical injury.

Clint fired.

He missed.

The Winter Soldier span away from Steve in a rage, fixing his cold blue eyes on Clint and lashing out at him instead.

The corridor was narrow, making it difficult to move in the confined space. Clint tried to dodge out of the way of the Winter Soldier's fist, crashing into the wall as he misjudged the dimensions of the tiny corridor.

The Winter Soldier's fist collided with the side of Clint's head, a sickening crack ringing out as Clint collapsed to the floor. The Winter Soldier kicked his limp body viciously, his boot connecting hard with Clint's arm.

Natasha moved forwards on autopilot, squashing down the terror that threatened to overwhelm her at the sight of Clint's motionless body on the floor. She could not tell if he was breathing.

She seized the Winter Soldier by the hair, hanging on tightly as Sam darted forwards and restrained his arms.

Steve staggered upright, grabbing hold of the Winter Soldier by the shoulders and shaking him hard.

"Wake up, Bucky!" he shouted. "Stop this!"

The Winter Soldier bared his teeth as he strained to escape from Sam and Natasha's tight holds.

"Shut up," he snarled.

Natasha twisted herself around his body so that she was facing him alongside Steve. The Winter Soldier's blue eyes flickered between them, the tiniest shadow of uncertainty.

"Do you remember me?" she demanded, stepping close so that he had no choice but to look at her.

The Winter Soldier spat in her face, cruel contempt back on his handsome features.

"No," he said harshly.

"Bucky!" said Steve. "You saved me from the Potomac River. Why?"

The Winter Soldier's eyes widened, for the first time looking afraid.

"That... That was a dream," he said slowly. "How do you know I dreamt that?"

Natasha swallowed back horror. They had convinced him that his memories were not real, that they were dreams. He had remembered, and they had gaslighted him. Bucky did not have any meaningful grip on reality anymore.

"Your dreams are real," said Natasha. "Everything you've ever doubted, it's all real."

Bucky's features twisted.

"Liar," he whispered, but the rage that had been in his eyes was gone, replaced by fear.

He was like a child, refusing to meet her eye, trembling slightly. Natasha was sure that if Sam were to let go of his arms now, he would fall to the ground.

"Do you know who I am?" asked Steve, tilting Bucky's head up gently so that they made eye contact.

Bucky shrank away from him.

Natasha edged backwards, letting Steve take over the careful negotiation. Her eyes flickered to Clint, who was still splayed out unmoving on the floor. Her hand slowly drifted downwards, towards her belt.

"You know me," continued Steve. "You've known me your whole life."

Bucky stared at him for a long moment, a mixture of uncertainty and longing on his face. Silence stretched out between them, weighing down the air, thick and potent. The piano music from the room beyond continued unabated.

"Steve?" whispered Bucky finally.

Natasha pulled her night-night pistol from her belt and shot him once in the chest.

Steve span around to stare at her.

"Get Clint and Bucky to the Quinjet," she said blankly. "They need proper medical help."

"Natasha!" said Steve, outraged that she had shot Bucky.

"Just do it," snapped Natasha, through gritted teeth.

For a tense moment, nobody moved. The piano music washed over them; it had not missed a beat. Sam was the first one to move, hurrying over to where Clint was lying on the floor and bending down to check on his condition.

"He's alive," said Sam, after a long pause during which he carefully checked Clint over. "But his arm's broken and he may have a concussion. Natasha's right, Steve, we need to give these two proper medical assistance in the Quinjet ASAP."

He gestured to Clint and Bucky's unconscious bodies.

Steve sighed, bending down to pick Bucky up gently.

"I'll deal with Madame B," said Natasha.

Steve shot her a warning glance. On the journey to Bucharest, they had agreed to tackle Madame B together, but that was before Clint had been knocked unconscious.

"Natasha..." he began.

Natasha breathed deeply.

"This is something I need to do alone," she said quietly.

After a beat, Steve nodded minutely, slinging Bucky over his shoulder as gently as he could. Sam did the same with Clint, being careful not to put any pressure on his broken arm.

"Stay safe," said Steve.

Steve and Sam disappeared back down the corridor, Bucky and Clint in their arms respectively, hurrying towards the staircase. Natasha watched as they disappeared from view, before turning back to face the door ahead of her.

_Up, turn, arms up, step and touch, step and touch, twirl..._

She took a deep breath and walked forwards, following the sound of the piano.

She entered Madame B's music room silently, almost gliding along, her feet carrying her regardless of her will.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of her old teacher sat in front of the grand piano.

Her slim fingers were dancing gracefully over the keys, her eyes closed, a serene expression on her face.

She looked much older than the last time Natasha had seen her, but she retained the same aura – a strange mixture of high-class ladyship and a dark undertone.

Natasha did not let her guard slip. Just because Madame B was older, did not make her any less dangerous.

She watched Madame B's perfectly manicured nails on the piano keys, took in her well-coifed hair and expensive blue dress suit. She was just as elegant as Natasha remembered. It was bizarre. It felt as though no time had passed at all.

Natasha felt once more like a teenager.

She licked her lips, tasting dust in the air as the final note vibrated from the grand piano.

Madame B finally opened her eyes, closing the lid of the piano and turning to face her, her movements precise and unhurried.

"Hello Natalia," she said.

Natasha stiffened at the sound of her voice. That voice had been the cause of so much suffering in her school years and had haunted her nightmares ever since. That voice had ordered the deaths of countless people: those girls who had failed the Red Room Academy's programme and those unfortunate police officers who sniffed a little too closely for Madame B's comfort.

Natasha pushed all this away, forcing away her emotions. She held her head high.

She meant to tell Madame B to surrender and come quietly. What actually tumbled from her mouth came as a surprise.

"That's not my name," she blurted out. "That's the name my parents gave me. That's who I was born as, not the person you made me to be."

Suddenly, it was as though 27 years of bitterness hit her all at once. Hurt and anger coursed through her. Madame B had stolen so much from her: her chance at a normal life, her childhood, her innocence. Madame B was a thief, and what she had taken could never be returned.

Natasha's hands shook with rage.

"And who did I make you to be?" asked Madame B, sounding genuinely interested.

Natasha felt her face flush with shame. All these years, all this time she had spent atoning, they meant nothing; Madame B could turn on her shame as easily as a tap.

"A killer," said Natasha. "A machine. The Black Widow."

Madame B nodded gravely.

"Then you know what's going to happen now, don't you, Natasha?" she said.

Natasha faltered. She had not expected this. She had expected a fight. She had not anticipated a dialogue.

"We're going to fight?" she asked, hating how uncertain her voice sounded.

Madame B chuckled softly, as if Natasha was a child struggling with a simple problem.

"No," said Madame B. "You're going to kill me, then I and the KGB will be proven right; you are nothing more than the killer we made you to be. We made you, Natasha. We own you. We win."

Natasha stiffened, feeling hatred pounding through her veins. It was a ruse, she knew. Madame B was deliberately trying to rile her up, get under her skin. She should not give in to it. She should not prove the KGB right. Because she was more than that, right? Surely, she was more than what they had made her to be?

Natasha's hand drifted slowly to her belt, reaching for her knife. She drew it out of its sheath, pressing the blade lightly against her thumb and drawing a small bead of blood.

"I won't fight you," said Madame B. "I promise you, I won't move. It will be easy. Just like shooting James during your graduation tests was easy. You were ruthless then. I am proud of that. I crushed the weakness out of you: your childish notions of love and friendship. You killed James, your only friend. You are perfect. You are exquisite. You are the most magnificent, soulless swine I ever created."

Natasha's grip around the handle of her knife tightened. She stepped forwards, the edges of her vision blurring as if in a dream.

"Don't I deserve to be killed?" continued Madame B. "When those final Red Room Academy students rebelled, I hunted them down and killed every last one of them, did you know that? The looks on their faces! You should have seen them. My favourites were the little ones though. I always did love the young ones the best. They screamed so beautifully when I slaughtered them."

Natasha stubbornly pushed away the mental image of Madame B killing her students. It was meant to distract her, she knew. She would not be distracted. She edged closer.

"No?" said Madame B, sounding disappointed by Natasha's lack of reaction. "Well then, don't I deserve to be killed for letting Elena die? I know how close you girls were, how much you loved one another. Don't you want to avenge Elena's death? Oh! Did you know that I tortured James, before he was brought to you to kill?"

Natasha felt a flash of white hot anger. She growled in the back of her throat – a primal sound. She brought up her knife, imagined slicing through Madame B's neck. She imagined the feel of her ex-teacher's blood spurting out around her fingers. The monster inside her purred.

Madame B's eyes glazed over, a small smile curving her lips.

"That's it, Natasha," she said softly. "Do what you were made to do. It's the only thing you're good for."

Madame B shifted her position slightly, her right hand starting to curl.

Natasha lunged forwards, grabbing hold of Madame B's hand and slicing through the wires of her suicide vest, which Natasha had noticed peeking out of the edge of Madame B's sleeve the moment she had entered the room.

Her knife fell to the floor with a clatter, its purpose served. Madame B's hand curled around the severed detonator, clicking it uselessly.

"No!" shouted Madame B, her facade of calmness falling away as she realised she had been thwarted, being replaced by an ugly expression of twisted rage.

Madame B jumped to her feet, her hand slipping inside her jacket and wrapping around her gun.

Natasha was too fast for her. She pulled out her night-night pistol and shot Madame B once in the chest.

The chemical compound affected her instantly, paralysing her and causing her to fall to the ground. Natasha caught her before she hit the ground, propping her up against the side of the grand piano.

She pulled out her handcuffs and secured them around Madame B's wrists. She looked her ex-teacher in the eyes, her heart clenching painfully at the sight of the familiar, beautiful blue. Madame B stared back at her, paralysed but still conscious.

"I am arresting you on multiple counts of murder, kidnapping, child abuse and terrorism offences," said Natasha, her voice breaking. "You are also arrested as an accessory to multiple counts of rape."

She watched as Madame B's eyes stared to glaze over. Natasha could get out her knife and kill her, she thought. No one would ever know. She could tell the others that there had been a fight, that it was self-defence.

She picked up her knife and stuck it back into her belt.

She leaned in close to Madame B's ear, murmuring the words before the older woman lost consciousness.

"You're wrong about me," said Natasha. "I am more than the killer you made me to be."

Madame B sucked in a deep, rattling breath.

"Weak," said the old woman.

Natasha shook her head sadly. Madame B did not understand.

"No," said Natasha. "Killing you would be weak. Letting you live, even though I want to rip you to shreds, even though you're evil, that takes strength. I'm choosing to do the right thing."

She watched as Madame B's eyelids fluttered closed, her breathing evening out as she finally succumbed to the sedative. She had stayed awake much longer than most subjects. She must have been battling hard to stay conscious.

Natasha looked down at her. She had never seen Madame B asleep. She had never seen her as anything but the perfectly put-together headmistress.

Madame B's eyelashes fanned across her wrinkled cheeks. She looked disappointingly ordinary. She could be any old woman.

Natasha thought briefly about slicing her neck – for Elena, for James, for all the countless victims of the Red Room Academy and its graduates.

Her hand went back to her knife.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, moved her hand firmly away from the blade – it took strength.

She opened her eyes. For the first time, she noticed that there were rows upon rows of filing cabinets lining the edge of the piano room. Written on them were years, spanning from the 1960s almost to the present day. She walked over to the drawer labelled 1987 and pulled it open. Rifling through the contents, she quickly found what she was looking for and stuffed it under her arm.

She turned back to Madame B. She watched the old woman, lying slumped against the grand piano in her decaying house, and sighed.

She picked her up and carried her to the Quinjet.

 

* * *

 

After rescuing Bucky and arresting Madame B, everything had moved very quickly.

Nick Fury, it turned out, was also in Bucharest – something that Natasha did not think was entirely a coincidence, but she did not mention it. He had made contact with them almost immediately after Madame B had been detained, whisking them off to a nearby secret SHIELD base.

The base was tiny, barely two buildings and a small airstrip, but it sufficed.

Presently, Bucky was in the medical room, Madame B was locked in a cell, and Natasha was sat in an interview room, her hands resting lightly on a folder in her lap, her gaze fixed on Nick, who was sat opposite her.

A camera was recording them.

"Are you sure you want to do this now?" said Nick. "We can wait until tomorrow if you want, let you get some sleep first?"

Natasha shook her head firmly.

"This is something I just want to get done," she said. "I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway, if it was looming over me."

Nick scrutinised her for a moment, before nodding.

"OK then," he said, before turning on the microphone between them. "This is Nicholas Fury interviewing Natasha Romanoff, who will be referred to as Witness N, gathering evidence for the trial against Svetlana Bagrova, colloquially known as Madame B."

Natasha's grip on the folder in her lap tightened. It seemed surreal that this was finally happening. After far too many years, Madame B was finally going to get what she deserved. It was a huge relief, and yet it felt as though a massive weight was pressing down on her chest, because Madame B's conviction relied upon her testimony.

It was an enormous responsibility.

Nick seemed to notice her wound-up state, because his expression softened, his voice becoming kinder and gentler when he spoke next.

"I'm proud of you," he said. "You arrested her. You could have killed her, but you didn't. You chose to let her live. You proved them wrong. You were strong."

Natasha's throat swelled with emotion. She bit the inside of her cheek, not wanting to reveal how, on the inside, she felt as if she was slowly falling apart.

She placed the folder on the table. It was the folder she had retrieved from the piano room in Madame B's mansion. It was thick with paper notes. Printed on the front was her name:  _Natalia Alianovna Romanova_.

It was her record. She had looked through it earlier. It contained of everything regarding her studentship at the Red Room Academy – going from enrolment right through to graduation. It detailed everything that had been done to her, every test that Madame B had forced her to pass.

"If you go to the music room in Madame B's mansion, you'll find cabinets upon cabinets of records," said Natasha. "She was an anal woman; she probably kept records of everyone."

Nick waited for Natasha to slide the folder over to him, but Natasha found her hands clamping down on it. She was suddenly immensely, irrationally ashamed. The folder laid her bare. Every terrible act she had committed as a Red Room Academy student was written down there, in Madame B's perfectly neat handwriting.

"I'll make sure all the records are retrieved," said Nick seriously. "They'll form a vital body of evidence against Madame B."

Natasha stared down at her fingers clamped tightly around the folder, willing them to unfurl. Her hands would not obey her; unwilling to give away this final part of herself. To give up the information would make it more real, somehow, more tangible.

Nick looked at her kindly.

"I know it's difficult," he said softly, "but you need to tell us everything. It's the only way to put Madame B away for good. Another ex-student and ex-KGB agent has come forward, Witness T, but to secure a conviction we really need your testimony as well. Two independent witnesses reporting the same things have a lot more weight than one witness alone."

Witness T.

Tatiana.

Wait, had Nick said  _ex_ -KGB agent? Yes, he had, which meant that Tatiana was free.

Natasha found herself smiling, inordinately relieved that Tatiana had finally managed to break free from the KGB's hold and turn her back on the destiny that Madame B had laid out for her.

Tatiana was free, and she had used her freedom to do her utmost to put Madame B away for her crimes.

It gave Natasha strength.

She slowly uncurled her hands from around the folder and slid it across the table to Nick.

Her heart hammered in her chest, nausea making her stomach swoop as Nick opened the folder and read the first page.

 

**_Red Room Academy_ **

**_Record Of Enrolment_ **

_Name: Natalia Alianovna Romanova_

_Year of birth: 1984_

_Year of enrolment: 1987_

_Nationality: Soviet_

_Ethnicity: Russian_

_Race: White_

_Hair colour: Red_

_Eye colour: Green_

_Status: Orphan_

 

She remembered her first ever day at the Red Room Academy. She remembered how Elena had held her hand and shown her 'the secret room' (in actual fact, a wardrobe). She remembered how Elena had sung her to sleep that first night, when Natasha had been crying with grief for her dead parents.

She owed it to Elena to secure Madame B's conviction. She owed it to Elena and James and all the other victims.

She took a deep breath, and centred her thoughts. If she was to tell Nick everything, it made sense to start at the beginning.

"In my first memory, I was three years old," she began. "I woke up, lying on my back, a strange series of images and sounds flashing through my mind: a flash of brown, the clatter of hooves on tarmac, screeching tyres and a sudden, tremendous crunching noise..."

 

* * *

 

It was done.

It had taken the rest of the night and most of the next day, but Natasha had told Nick everything.

He had sat quietly, respectfully, only interrupting when it was absolutely necessary to clarify certain important points.

At first, Natasha had tried to hold back her emotions, but it had proven impossible. Eventually, she had given up the charade and allowed herself to cry.

Nick had silently passed her tissues, giving her time and space to cry as old wounds ripped themselves open. When she had described Elena and James' deaths, he had walked around the table and hugged her.

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, allowing the cool evening air to fill her lungs.

She was stood outside the little SHIELD base, her shoes off, her feet in the grass.

The feel of the earth and the grass beneath her heels and between her toes grounded her, made her feel calm.

The sun was starting to set, casting out its last light of the day over Bucharest.

She felt as though she had been scrubbed raw. Re-living her life in such intimate detail had been brutal, in every sense of the word. During the interview, it had felt as though she was pulling herself apart into little pieces, and now, in the aftermath, she was trying to put the pieces back together again, and the pieces did not quite fit.

Maybe that was OK, though. Maybe that was what made her human.

She felt exhausted, but not weak. She knew that facing her past had taken strength, that saving Madame B instead of killing her had taken courage. She was proud of that.

Madame B was wrong.

The KGB was wrong.

She was more than the killer they had made her to be.

She was Natasha Romanoff; a person, a woman, not a weapon.

She closed her eyes, breathing deeply as she felt the sun setting on her face. The air grew cooler. It was nice.

When she opened her eyes once more, maybe half an hour later, the sun had set completely. It was a cloudless night, showcasing the stars above. She titled her head back and watched in awe as the sky grew blacker and blacker, revealing the Milky Way.

It was beautiful.

She stood there for a long while, not thinking, simply feeling, and she realised it felt as though a weight had been lifted. She had never noticed before, just how dark a shadow Madame B had cast upon her life, but now that she was gone, finally imprisoned and awaiting trial, Natasha realised how much lighter she felt.

She smiled.

She slipped her hands into her pockets to keep them warm, frowning as her fingers brushed against a slip of paper that she had not put there. She pulled out the piece of paper and realised it was a handwritten note.

She squinted in the darkness, the moon and the stars providing just enough light to make out the words. She became stock still, staring at the words in disbelief as they triggered dozens of questions to burst into her mind simultaneously.

Then, she started to laugh, and once she started, she could not stop.

She stood there, tears rolling down her cheeks as she laughed, as joy exploded in her chest, as the little broken pieces inside her shifted slightly more in line.

She looked down at the slip of paper again, half-afraid the message may have disappeared, but it was still there, glorious and bold in Nick Fury's neat handwriting:

_Phil Coulson is alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHIL COULSON: Phil Coulson really does survive being stabbed by Loki in canon, i.e. he really is alive. The Marvel TV show "Agents Of SHIELD" explains how he survived and his life after the events of the film "Avengers". If you've not seen it before, I'd recommend it; it's really good!
> 
> IN MY FIRST MEMORY I WAS THREE YEARS OLD: "In my first memory, I was three years old," she began. "I woke up, lying on my back, a strange series of images and sounds flashing through my mind: a flash of brown, the clatter of hooves on tarmac, screeching tyres and a sudden, tremendous crunching noise..." If you thought this sounded familiar, you're right. Take a look at chapter 1 and you'll see that it's how this story began.
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be the _final chapter_ and will be titled The Big Blue Sky. You may remember that "the big blue sky" was how James described freedom. This final chapter will be set in 2017 and will tie up all the loose ends.
> 
> THANK YOU: I can't believe we're almost at the end of this journey. Thank you to all of you who have followed this story over the last 8 months, particularly those of you who have taken the time to leave such lovely comments, I appreciate your readership and support immensely. I hope you enjoy the final chapter; I estimate it will be up in around 1 week.


	34. The Big Blue Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the final chapter. Enjoy! And as always, [chapter art](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/162740617256/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-chapter) <3

2017 – Aged 33

 

* * *

 

Natasha woke as the sun rose.

The sun slowly filtered through the curtains of the spare bedroom of Clint and Laura's farmhouse. Natasha lay still, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face, enjoying the feeling of being safe and cocooned underneath Laura's handmade blankets.

She breathed deeply, smelling cinnamon in the air; it smelled like someone was baking cookies in the kitchen.

She rolled over with a smile, finally opening her eyes, her gaze latching onto the dream catcher that hung above her bed. It had been decorated by Lila, vivid pink and purple paints splashed all over it.

It was one of Natasha's favourite things about this bedroom. Over the years, it had become less the  _spare_ bedroom and more  _Natasha's_ bedroom. Right from the beginning, Clint and Laura had told her that she was welcome to come and go as she pleased, and now, finally, she felt that it was true.

Downstairs, she heard someone pottering around in the kitchen. The low rumble of voices was audible through the floorboards; the comforting sound of home.

Natasha sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she disentangled herself from the blankets. She wrapped a dressing gown around herself and shuffled downstairs, following the sound of voices and the smell of cinnamon.

She paused at the threshold of the kitchen, watching Clint and Laura sitting sleepily at the kitchen table, talking together in low voices so as not to wake the children sleeping upstairs.

The Bartons were holding one another's hands, their heads touching gently as they murmured to one another.

Affection swelled in Natasha's chest as she watched them. They were her family – maybe not biologically, but in every way that mattered.

She cleared her throat to announce her presence, causing two sets of eyes to swivel towards her and silence to descend upon the room.

Laura was the first one to break it.

"Hey," she said softly. "How are you feeling?"

Natasha's first instinct was to shrug away her concerns, but she stopped herself. They would want her to be honest, she realised; they did not view her as a burden. It was OK to be honest with them, they were safe. It had taken Natasha a long time to accept this, but she was finally there.

Taking a deep breath, she held out her hands, showing that they were shaking slightly.

"I'm scared shitless," she admitted.

Laura extricated herself from Clint's arms and padded across the kitchen to her, wrapping Natasha in a tight hug.

"Whatever the outcome today, we believe you," said Laura. "You've been so strong. You've come so far. We're both proud of you."

Natasha nodded shakily, squeezing Laura's hand in silent thanks.

Today was the day that Madame B's trial was due to conclude.

It had dragged on for three years – three long, anxious years filled with waiting and uncertainty. The KGB had at first tried their utmost to stop the trial from progressing, before one day suddenly denying all knowledge of and connection to Madame B. They had washed their hands of her, throwing her out to the dogs.

Natasha felt bitter about it, that the KGB would get away with funding the Red Room Academy and allowing its existence to continue for so many decades, but she had accepted that some things just happened like that.

The important thing was that _Madame B_ was on trial – after all, she was the one who had actually run the school and orchestrated or authorised each act of torture. She was the one who had brainwashed and killed so many girls. She was the one ultimately responsible.

Laura guided Natasha to the kitchen table. She sat down between Laura and Clint, reaching out and grabbing hold of both of their hands. They squeezed back, their presence grounding her and making her feel more secure.

A TV remote lay in front of Clint. His free hand was next to it, fingers brushing against the plastic.

"Whenever you're ready, just say the word," he said. "We're with you every step of the way."

Natasha closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of Laura and Clint's hands in her own. Today the court would announce whether Madame B was to be found guilty or not guilty of her charges. If found guilty, they would announce her sentence as well; the culmination of years of legal proceedings.

The verdict rested on the testimony of Witness N and Witness T, the folders found in Madame B's mansion in Bucharest and the hundreds of bones found buried in the grounds of the Red Room Academy, which had been located deep in the South Western Russian countryside.

The defence lawyers had tried to argue that the evidence of Witness N and Witness T was unreliable. That their pasts as assassins should mean that their testimony was disallowed and thrown away in disgrace.

It stung, to be disbelieved.

Natasha and Tatiana were not liars.

Natasha's hands were shaking, her heart hammering hard in her chest, anxiety gnawing at her stomach and making her feel queasy and sick.

The thought of Madame B getting away with her crimes was too awful to bear. She did not know how she would cope, if the court decided that Madame B was to be believed over Natasha and Tatiana.

Natasha had fought so hard to become more than what the Red Room Academy had shaped her to be. She had given Nick the most detailed, intimate description of her life. The thought that it could all have been for nothing had kept her awake for many sleepless nights.

"OK," she said, finally opening her eyes. "Turn it on."

Clint gave her a small, encouraging smile before picking up the remote and turning on the TV, putting it onto the news channel as soon as it crackled into life.

The screen showed a huge crowd of reporters crammed into the courtroom. Photographers and journalists from dozens of TV broadcasters and newspaper publications were filling the heavily-guarded courtroom.

The public gallery was packed with people who had come in off the streets, drawn in by the macabre lure of what was being called the trial of the century.

Madame B herself was barely visible in her bulletproof witness box, a gang of burly police officers surrounding her and obscuring her slender frame behind their muscular mass.

Natasha's eyes lingered on her for a moment, her heart heavy with the weight of fifteen years’ worth of horrific memories and three decades’ worth of waiting.

She was tired of waiting.

She was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than for this whole ordeal to be over, for the judge to stand up and announce the verdict, to lock away that wicked woman and throw away the key forever.

That was not what was happening.

Instead, on the screen, the judge was droning on and on about the history of the case, the legal precedents it had set, the importance of full and transparent justice and a million other things that Natasha did not care about.

What she wanted was for Madame B to face justice for the litany of crimes she had committed. It was far too late for many of her victims – many of them were dead, others missing – but that was not the point. The point was that justice should have no time limit, that no matter how much Madame B had tried to hide behind the passage of time, she should not be able to succeed.

Justice was patient.

Justice was fair.

Justice should be able to look at two broken, former Red Room Academy students and see that for all their mistakes, for all the horrors they had both committed and been subjected to, they were not liars.

Natasha and Tatiana were telling the truth, and it terrified Natasha more than anything else she had ever encountered that they may not be believed.

The victims deserved justice.

Elena deserved justice.

James deserved justice.

Natasha felt a tear slip down her cheek at the thought that she may not have been able to secure it for them.

On the screen, the judge finally seemed to be getting to the point. He stood up, the rest of the courtroom following suit.

Natasha leaned forwards in her chair, holding her breath, her entire body rigid as she stared at the small TV screen.

The courtroom had fallen into an equally tense silence. Natasha was sure that if she were actually in the courtroom, she would be able to hear the individual breaths of those present, so complete was the silence that had descended.

"Svetlana Bagrova, please rise," said the judge.

Madame B got to her feet, impeccably dressed in her patent blue dress suit. She gave the judge a cool, aloof stare, seemingly unfazed by the proceedings.

"You are charged with multiple counts of murder, multiple counts of kidnapping, multiple counts of cruel and degrading treatment of a child, multiple counts of rape as an accessory to the act, preventing multiple lawful burials and arson," said the judge.

The arson charge had been added during the course of the trial, when the Red Room Academy had finally been located. It was a burnt-out shell, set alight by Madame B after she had slaughtered the final students in a desperate attempt to cover her tracks.

Perhaps she thought that Natasha and Tatiana would not be able to direct investigators to the location, perhaps she thought that the KGB would protect her. Whatever her assumption, she had been wrong.

The Red Room Academy had been found, charred and empty, its grounds filled with bones, bullet casings and wild buttercups.

Natasha sat unnaturally still, her entire body taut like a violin string ready to be plucked. Her chest barely moved as she breathed, her entire concentration focused on the judge, the man who held Madame B's fate in his hands, who got to decide justice, who got to decide whether Witness N and Witness T could be believed.

Because the horror and the brutality that they had recounted were, by all accounts, unbelievable.

"I find you guilty of all charges and impose the maximum sentence available to me: life imprisonment with no possibility of parole."

_Guilty._

Natasha's heart skipped a beat, possibly two or even three, and then a sob burst from her lips and the spell was broken.

On the screen, a cacophony of noise and motion erupted, cameras flashing and journalists shouting out questions as the public gallery roared with approval.

The rest of the judge’s words were drowned out by the commotion in the courtroom, but anyhow, Natasha was no longer listening.

Tears poured down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Relief, joy and grief warred within her – relief that it was over, joy that Madame B would  _finally_ be facing justice, and grief for Elena, for James, for everything that Madame B had done.

She let out a watery laugh that quickly turned hysterical. They had done it. Natasha and Tatiana had done it. They had succeeded in getting justice for themselves, for their classmates, for all the victims who had suffered or died because of Madame B and the Red Room Academy.

Madame B was finally going to get the punishment she deserved.

The sentence of life imprisonment no possibility of parole meant Madame B would have no hope, no freedom. She would rot behind bars for the rest of her life, knowing that she would never again set foot outside prison, that the four walls of her cell would be all she would see for the remainder of her days.

Natasha thought it was a fitting end.

Her outpouring of emotion did not last long. It was largely a physiological response, a reaction to the enormous stress she had been under and the sheer effect of having it all lifted at once.

When she finally looked up once more and wiped her eyes, she caught sight of the TV screen.

It was showing the public gallery, sweeping across the rows of jubilant onlookers as they celebrated an evil woman's downfall. For a couple of seconds, the camera panned across a familiar figure: a thin, pale face, mousy brown hair, grey eyes.

Tatiana was crying hard, her thin hands clutched over her heart.

Tatiana wiped her eyes and looked up, briefly making eye contact with the camera.

The camera was only on her for a moment, but it gave Natasha long enough to see a smile break out on her ex-classmate's face, her expression mirroring Natasha's own: a smile, the lightening of an immense burden and sweet, sweet relief.

 

* * *

 

Natasha's brainwashing was not the instant, brutally efficient mind-wipe that the Winter Soldier had been subjected to.

It took place over her entire childhood, fifteen long years between the ages of three and eighteen. It was a slow, insidious erosion of her soul, wearing her down, shaping her mind like the dripping of water on limestone.

Drip, drip, drip.

The result had been just as deadly.

The Red Room Academy had twisted her into a version of herself that would never have existed otherwise – a colder version, a more broken version, a stronger, more resilient version.

Natasha pondered who she could have been if Vladimir had never abducted her. She may have been kinder, she may have been softer, perhaps she may have laughed more easily.

She knew she had done terrible things as a Red Room Academy student and a KGB agent. She knew that she would spend the rest of her life trying to atone for it. But she also knew that she had changed, that she was a good person now, that she deserved to forgive herself, even if the guilt never entirely went away.

She was thinking about that, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel of her car, when she reached the shore.

She killed the engine, allowing herself to sit in quiet contemplation in the silence left behind after the rumble of the engine.

She gazed out through the windscreen, looking out at the small beach she had found herself on. She had not chosen it in particular; she had simply pointed her car towards the coast and driven.

The beach was small and made up of small pebbles rather than sand. It was a natural beach, miles away from anywhere, no man-made promenades or any other structures to spoil the natural beauty of the place.

Perhaps it looked a little bleak, now that the sun had gone behind a large bank of cloud, making both the sky and the sea more grey than blue, but to Natasha, it looked beautiful.

She allowed herself the luxury of sitting in the car for a couple more minutes, simply observing and appreciating the serenity and isolation of the little beach.

Sighing softly to herself, she pulled on her jacket and reached over to the back seat, gently picking up a bouquet of flowers.

She stepped out of the car and locked it, shivering slightly due to the sea breeze, instantly tasting the salt in the air as it whipped around her, causing her hair to fly about chaotically. She pushed her hair behind her ears and started to walk down the beach, the flowers pressed protectively against her chest so that she would not drop any of them.

The Barton children – Cooper, Lila and Nathaniel – had helped her pick them earlier that morning after the result of Madame B's trial had been announced. The bouquet was large enough to fill her arms with a riot of yellow; the most beautiful buttercups and daffodils that they had been able to find in the meadow outside the Bartons' farmhouse.

Buttercups because they were the flowers Natasha had given Elena during that glorious summer when Madame B had been ill, walking the hills around the Red Room Academy and eating picnics up birch trees.

Daffodils because they had been James' favourite flower, the flower that he had given her when he had caught her trying to break into his farmhouse aged 6.

The brightness of the yellow made Natasha suddenly remember James' ridiculous yellow rain hat, enormous and wide-brimmed and far too large for him. Once, they had tried to fit both their heads inside, giggling helplessly at the absurdity of it all.

The stones crunched underneath Natasha's shoes. She slowed her pace as she finally arrived at the sea's edge, little waves of foam rising and receding gently around her feet.

The sea stretched out in front of her, huge and endless and simple.

Elena had always wanted to go to the seaside.

Natasha knew her full name now. Nick had personally gone through the files retrieved from Madame B's music room, discovering in the process Elena and James’ names.

He had informed her of the fact immediately, asking her if she would like to know.

Natasha had replied instantly in the affirmative, and Nick had told her.

Elena Pavlova.

James Orlov-Taylor.

It gave Natasha a sense of peace, to know their full names. It gave her a sense that their stories had finally been completed, that they could now rest peacefully knowing that she knew this most intimate of secrets. She had not known how much healing power lay in knowing something as simple as a name.

She said their names aloud, calling out to them as if they might somehow be able to hear her across time and space. Maybe they could, in some version of reality. Maybe love was strong enough to go beyond the boundaries of the physical world.

The sea was soaking into her shoes, wetting her feet, but she did not make any effort to move. Now that she was here, at the sea shore, her arms laden with flowers, she found herself at a loss for what to do.

She had come with the intention of performing some kind of ceremony, but faced with the prospect of actually doing so, she felt lost.

She cleared her throat, gearing herself up to speak, even though she felt somewhat stupid doing so since she was alone. It felt like the right thing to do though. Elena and James mattered enough for the words to be said aloud.

"Hey guys," she said weakly. "It's me. I figured it was about time you both had a proper send off."

She faltered, unsure of herself. The words seemed inadequate, not truly conveying the force of love and emotion that lay behind them.

She cast her mind back, trying to remember what kinds of things she had heard people say at funerals. How did other people do this?

She cleared her throat, shivering slightly in the cool sea breeze, and tried again.

"The Red Room Academy is over now," she said. "Madame B got put on trial and found guilty of all her crimes. The school's been shut down and Madame B's going to spend the rest of her life locked away. We did it. We won. I know it's too little, too late, but we did what we could. No one else is going to suffer because of Madame B anymore."

She shifted slightly, an uncomfortable feeling settling in her gut as she remembered something she had said long ago, first during her graduation test at the Red Room Academy and again during her interview to join SHIELD.

She had been so sure of herself then, but she knew now that she had made a mistake.

"I was wrong," she said suddenly. "I'm not fearless. I used to think that I was, and that being fearless somehow made me strong, but I was wrong. I do have fears. I fear that harm might come to my friends, that something bad might happen to Clint or Laura or Cooper or Lila or Nathaniel or Phil, because I love them. With love comes fear, and that's OK. It's not weak. Love equals fear but it also equals strength. Our strength as a team comes from the love and the trust that we share. It's OK to be afraid, because some things are important enough to be worth being frightened about losing."

She looked up, seeking out the moon, and she saw it, a thin crescent just visible in the one patch of sky that was not obscured by clouds.

"You always believed, Elena, that when people died their souls went to live on the moon," Natasha said wistfully. "Are you there now? On the moon with James?"

There was, of course, no reply.

Natasha sighed softly. She was an atheist. She did not believe in an afterlife, either in Heaven or on the moon, but something about Elena's notion captivated her. Perhaps it was because it was something so simple, so individual, so quintessentially  _Elena_.

"I love you, Elena," she whispered. "I love you, James. I'll never forget you, either of you. Whenever I see the colour yellow, I'll think of you."

She bent down, placing the flowers gently into the sea.

She watched as the current slowly sucked the daffodils and buttercups out into the ocean.

The cascade of yellow became smaller and smaller, until it finally became a single speck in the far distance, before that too faded from sight.

She stood there for a long while, breathing in the salty sea air and feeling the wind whip her red hair around her face.

The foam around her ankles slowly rose up to her knees.

When she finally walked away, her shoes and trousers were wet with sea water and her cheeks were wet too, but she was smiling, and although she was silent, in her heart she was singing.

She finally felt at peace.

 

* * *

 

Several days later, she was crammed into the Bartons' campervan, sharing the space with six other people and a multitude of camping equipment and food.

They were driving along a long stretch of road, the countryside whizzing by as they sped towards New York.

Clint and Laura were sat in the front two seats, talking about an interesting-sounding murder mystery book that they had both read recently.

Phil was sat in the middle row, Cooper by his side. The 11-year-old boy was chatting animatedly about some comic book or another, his long, gangly limbs flailing around as he gesticulated excitedly.

Natasha was in the back row with the two youngest Bartons: Lila, 8, and Nathaniel, 2.

They were sat on either side of her, their little hands clasped in hers, both of them leaning against her contentedly as the campervan rumbled on down the road.

Natasha glanced down fondly at the two children, her gaze flicking up to look at Cooper sat in the row in front too. They had grown so much over the years, each of them developing their own personalities and quirks.

Cooper, with his light brown hair and blue eyes, was growing to look more and more like Clint every day. Unlike his father, however, he was not so into action and sport. He was quieter, more thoughtful, more creative. He loved comic books and discussing stories. Natasha thought he might grow up to be a writer, like his mother.

Lila was bolder. With dark brown hair and brown eyes, she looked very much like Laura. Louder and more confident than Cooper, Lila was the child most likely to come home with scraped knees and a story to tell. She was curious, bright and outgoing. Recently, she had got into trouble at school for trying to single-handedly re-enact the battle of New York, running around the classrooms pretending to be Hawkeye, throwing sticks at the teachers, who she had cast as the Chitauri. When Clint and Laura had been called in by the school principal, they had had to stifle their giggles, telling their daughter later that what she had done was fine for playtime but not during lesson time, and that she should check if other people want to play before casting them in her games. Lila had accepted their proposal.

Nathaniel was the youngest. Natasha remembered how Clint had got the call from Laura informing him that she was pregnant, just before they had flown out to Bucharest to free Bucky and arrest Madame B. Unlike his siblings, Nathaniel did not look very much like either of his parents. He had Laura's warm brown eyes, but his hair was a pale, curly blonde. Apparently, he looked a lot like Laura's father. Natasha thought he looked a lot like James must have done when he was a boy. Nathaniel was a sweet, shy little boy. He adored Natasha, following her around like a shadow whenever she visited the farmhouse. He was kind, a miniature counsellor. If ever Cooper and Lila were upset, he would make a beeline for them and snuggle up to them until they stopped crying.

Natasha was just gazing down at his round face when he looked up. He smiled up at her sweetly before turning towards the front of the campervan.

"Daddy?" he called out, kicking his little legs slightly.

"Hey, little dude," replied Clint, leaning back fully against his seat to show that he was listening, even though he had to keep his eyes on the road as he was driving. "What's up?"

"Why am I called Nathaniel?" he said.

At the front of the campervan, Clint and Laura exchanged warm smiles, as if they were sharing a private thought that made them very happy.

Natasha leaned forwards with interest. She did not know why Clint and Laura had chosen to name Nathaniel as such, but judging by their expressions there was a story there.

Laura twisted around in her seat, grinning at her youngest son in the back of the campervan.

"Well, Nathaniel," she said. "You're named after someone very special. This person is very good and strong. They had a bad start in life, but they fought hard to turn out nice and do good things, and they did it."

Nathaniel leaned forwards eagerly, his head bobbing along excitedly as he listened to his mother tell the story.

"They're part of our little family," continued Laura. "Can you guess who they are?"

Nathaniel's forehead scrunched up into a tiny frown as he thought about it, his pink tongue stinking out slightly.

"Um, is it Daddy?" he said, sounding hopeful.

Clint laughed softly from the front seat, shaking his head.

"Nope, not me," he sing-songed. "Guess again."

Nathaniel bounced in his seat with excitement, clearly getting into the game.

"Is it Uncle Phil?" he asked.

Phil raised his eyebrows in amusement, shaking his head with a smile on his face.

"No," he said. "Phil isn't short for Nathaniel, I'm afraid."

Nathaniel pouted, looking slightly disappointed and confused.

"Do you want to know?" said Laura, her eyes twinkling.

Nathaniel nodded eagerly.

"Yes, Mommy!" he said, practically squirming in his seat with excitement.

"It's Natasha!" chorused Clint and Laura together.

Nathaniel clapped his hands together and squealed, immediately throwing himself sideways so that he was lying in Natasha's lap, looking up at her adoringly.

"Yey!" he said happily. "We're the same!"

His hands reached up towards her, his little fingers wiggling in her face.

Natasha closed her hand around his in stunned silence, bringing his wiggling fingers to her lips and kissing them gently, causing him to giggle.

A lump formed in her throat. She had never known, had never imagined, that Nathaniel had been named in tribute to her. Her heart swelled with emotion at the thought that the Bartons considered her to be such an important part of their family that they had decided to name their own flesh-and-blood child after her.

It was wonderfully, staggeringly touching.

Natasha bit down on her lip, not trusting herself to speak in case she started crying. She caught sight of Laura looking at her and gave her a watery smile, hoping that her gratitude and happiness had been communicated through the look. Laura seemed to understand, giving her a gentle, open smile and a nod before turning back to face the front.

Natasha gradually composed herself as Nathaniel continued wiggling in her lap, oblivious to the emotional rollercoaster she was experiencing.

Eventually, the little boy became sleepy, tiring himself out with excitement. Natasha pulled him back into an upright position, allowing him to sleep more comfortably with a straight back.

"Aww, so cute," said Phil, giving her a wink when she stuck her tongue out at him.

It had been three years since she had learnt that Phil was still alive, three years since they had been reunited.

Still, despite the passage of time, it made her heart sing to be with him, because she had lost him once and she would never forget how awful that had felt.

She watched Phil as he turned back around to continue his conversation with Cooper, drinking in the exact colour of his hair, the lines around his eyes that told of a lifetime of smiling.

She remembered when she had seen him at SHIELD Memorial Gardens that one time. She had run over to where she had seen him standing, to find him gone. At the time, she had dismissed it as a trick of the mind, grief making her see things that were not there.

It had not been a trick of the mind, after all.

Phil had confirmed the memory as being real. He admitted that he had kept an eye on her. He had yearned to tell her that he had survived Loki's stabbing, but Nick had thought it would be bad for team cohesion and had forbidden it – a decision the former Director had later admitted was wrong.

She had once asked exactly how Phil had survived Loki's stabbing. He had been on the Helicarrier – dead – for at least 40 minutes before it had landed at a medical facility. It did not make sense that he should be alive.

Phil himself had seemed a little uncertain of the details, but he had spoken at great length about his recovery in Tahiti. Apparently, it was a magical place.

All of a sudden, she remembered the poem that had been read aloud at Phil's funeral.

  
Do not stand at my grave and weep   
I am not there. I do not sleep.   
I am a thousand winds that blow.   
I am the diamond glints on snow.   
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.   
I am the gentle autumn rain.   
When you awaken in the morning's hush   
I am the swift uplifting rush   
Of quiet birds in circled flight.   
I am the soft stars that shine at night.   
Do not stand at my grave and cry;   
I am not there. I did not die.

 

She laughed out loud, startling Lila and causing Nathaniel to shift in his sleep.

_Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there. I do not sleep. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die._

The truth had been in plain sight all along.

She remembered Lila's prediction that Phil might come back to life, just like her teddy that had once had its head miraculously reattached overnight. Somehow, against all the odds, Lila had been right.

Natasha smiled, tightening her hold on Lila's hand, and the little girl squeezed back enthusiastically, thrilled as ever at getting to sit in the back with Auntie Nat.

Natasha watched as the sun slowly slid across the sky and the landscape around them went from rural to urban.

At some point, Nathaniel woke up, pressing his nose against the window as they finally entered New York City.

"Where are we, Daddy?" he asked, his chubby hands squashed against the glass of the window as he stared out in wonder.

"New York, baby," said Clint.

Lila thrust her hand in the air as if she were at school. It was a quirky little habit that had appeared recently out of nowhere. The adults had just accepted it.

"Yes, Lila?" prompted Laura.

"I thought we were going to Yo-se-mi-te!" said Lila, pronouncing the word carefully.

Laura laughed and nodded.

"We are," she said. "But first we've got to pick up Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky."

Lila let out a shriek of delight that was only matched by Phil's squeal from the middle row.

Natasha rolled her eyes, grinning at being surrounded by such fangirls and fanboys. Whilst Phil was still hugely in awe of Steve, Lila had a deep adoration for Bucky's metal arm.

When she had first met Bucky, aged 6, she had immediately run up to him and pointed at it with a delighted scream, demanding to touch it and know exactly how it worked.

Clint and Laura had been mortified, stammering out apologies and promising to teach their daughter that that was not an appropriate way to talk to amputees.

Bucky, however, had brushed their concerns aside, patiently bending and flexing his metal arm for Lila's amusement, spending almost the entire evening entertaining the little girl and largely ignoring the adults. From that day forth, the two of them had had a sweet friendship that had only grown stronger over the years.

Natasha was jerked from her thoughts as the campervan slowed to a halt. She looked out of the window to see Steve and Bucky standing on the pavement outside their block of flats.

After Bucky had been rescued from Madame B, he had been hospitalised for several weeks as he was put under observation by a team of expert psychiatrists. Once the doctors were convinced that the Winter Soldier was not going to make a re-appearance, they had released him from the hospital.

There had followed a tense few weeks when various law enforcement agencies had tried to extradite and charge him for the crimes he had committed whilst brainwashed, but thankfully the UN had stepped in, exonerating him of all of his crimes.

There was plentiful evidence that he had been brainwashed, that he had had no control over his actions, and once the UN had released their statement to the world's law enforcement agencies, they had thankfully fallen away and left him alone.

After that, Steve had gone through the painstaking bureaucratic process of becoming Bucky's legal guardian until his mental state had stabilised.

They had moved to New York in an attempt to speed up the recovery of his memories. It worked. Different things triggered memories: sights, sounds, smells, taste, touch, even music.

Natasha remembered one particularly harrowing time when she had gone to visit them, her hair newly cut into a bob and a fringe. It was the same hairstyle she had had when she was aged 16. As soon as Bucky had seen her with her hair like that, he had gone as white as a sheet, running away and breaking down into sobs as memories of almost raping at the Red Room Academy had flooded back to him. He had been horrified, sickened with himself, begging her for forgiveness.

She had held him gently, stroking his back as he trembled and told him quietly that there was nothing to forgive. He had not been himself. He had been brainwashed. He was just as much a victim as she was. What had happened had not been his choice, much less his fault.

She had not had a fringe since then, letting it grow out so that it blended back in with the rest of her hair.

The last three years had been difficult ones for Bucky, but he was recovering. Old memories were returning to him every day, in bits and pieces. With the help of a professional counsellor and Steve's unwavering love and support, he was slowly but surely getting better.

Every day, he frowned less and smiled more.

Every day, he felt the joy of living a little more keenly.

Presently, the two super-soldiers were stood at the curb, sharing a joke together as Clint got out to help them put their bags in the back of the campervan.

Bags safely stowed away, they climbed into the campervan – Steve joining Phil and Cooper in the middle row and Bucky joining Natasha, Lila and Nathaniel in the back seat.

Lila held her hand up for a high five, which Bucky eagerly gave.

"Step on it, Daddy," yelled Lila. "We're going to Yo-se-mi-teeee!"

The adults laughed, little Nathaniel clapping and laughing along too, even though he was probably too young to truly understand what all the fuss was about. Cooper slouched and rolled his eyes, stifling a grin.

They drove through the city, finally hitting the highway that took them away from the hustle and bustle of city life and towards the countryside.

Steve turned around in his seat, grinning back at Bucky.

"Hey Buck," he said. "We've been to Yosemite before, when we were kids. I went on there a trip for asthmatic children and you sneaked along with us. I think you pretended to have an asthma attack or ten so that you'd blend in. Didn't work, but by the time they figured out you were faking we were already there. You got a free holiday."

Bucky gazed out of the window, his eyes glazing over as he stared at the road whizzing by outside. After a while, a smile spread slowly across his face.

"I forgot my pyjamas, so I had to wear your stupid spare pair with the ducks on?" he said, his eyes flicking to Steve uncertainly, his inflection making his sentence more of a question than a statement.

Steve bit his lip, nodding rapidly as he grinned back in response.

Natasha saw the tears glistening in his eyes, but casually looked away so that Steve could wipe his face surreptitiously.

When she looked back, Steve and Bucky were staring at one another fondly, gentle smiles on their faces as they remembered.

 

* * *

 

Yosemite was even more beautiful than Natasha remembered.

Perhaps it was because the weight of Madame B had finally been lifted off her shoulders. Perhaps it was because this time they were joined by even more members of their hodgepodge family who had not been present before: Nathaniel, Steve and Bucky.

Whatever the reason, the colours seemed that little bit more vibrant, the smells that bit crisper, the sense of peacefulness even more complete and all-encompassing.

After several days of driving almost 3,000 miles across the country, they had finally arrived at Yosemite National Park.

The adults had set up camp fairly quickly, slowed down only slightly by the dubious help of the children.

They were presently sat down in the grass, wildflowers in bloom around them, a small stream gurgling nearby, finishing off their picnic lunch and washing it down with fruit juice.

Natasha watched as Lila ran in circles around the camp, trailing a sleeping bag behind her as she stamped and hollered excitedly. Nathaniel was toddling after her in delight, Laura chasing after them both as she shouted at Lila to stop before she got the sleeping bag covered in mud.

Natasha laughed.

She had never had such experiences growing up. If she had gone on a rampage whilst trailing her bedsheets behind her, Madame B would have beaten her for sure, if not worse.

It gave her a warm feeling of happiness to see Cooper, Lila and Nathaniel have a good upbringing, a safe upbringing; a childhood where they were permitted to be children.

She startled slightly as Phil appeared from behind her and plopped himself down next to her. He watched the pensive expression on her face and cocked his head to the side.

"A penny for your thoughts?" he asked, offering a segment of his orange.

Natasha peeled a segment away and popped it into her mouth, savouring the cool, sweet juices that exploded on her tongue.

She was silent for a long while, struggling to put into words what she was feeling.

It was a contemplative feeling, very calm and peaceful, as she thought about all the events in her life that had led her to this point in time.

"Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if things had been just a little bit different?" she said eventually.

Phil licked orange juice off his fingers as he thought about it.

"Sometimes, yeah," he said. "Before I heard about SHIELD, I always wanted to be a history teacher. Sometimes I wonder what it'd have been like to have a classroom of 15 years olds rather than a Quinjet full of agents."

He finished his orange and lay back on the grass, inviting Natasha to do the same.

She lay down, feeling the blades of grass tickling the sensitive skin of her neck.

"Why?" said Phil. "Do you sometimes think about what your life could have been like if... if things had been different?"

_If Vladimir had never kidnapped you and set your life on a radically different path?_

The true question hung in the air, unspoken.

Natasha sighed.

"Yes," she admitted. "If that deer hadn't bolted across the road at that exact moment, then my parents wouldn't have died, and none of the Red Room Academy crap that followed would have happened."

Phil looked at her sympathetically.

"Would you change it, if you could?" he asked quietly.

After a long pause, Natasha shook her head.

"No," she said softly. "Because then I wouldn't be here. And I don't think I want to miss this for the world. Everything that's happened, it's led to me meeting you and Clint and Laura. It's meant I've got to see three beautiful children grow up. I have a wonderful life here, and it's more than worth all the suffering that came along the way."

She bit her lip, feeling a tear roll down her cheek and into the grass.

Phil reached out and held her hand gently. She turned her head to look at him. The sun was behind him, making it look as though he had a halo. She gave him a grateful smile, her smile brightening even more as a mop of blonde curls toddled towards her.

"Hey sweetie," she smiled.

Nathaniel flopped down on her other side, flinging an arm and a leg over her and snuggling up close to her side, his little fingers clinging to her t-shirt.

She looked down at his features, open and trusting and soft with sleepiness.

"Song, please, Auntie Nat," he asked sweetly, his eyelids already fluttering closed in anticipation of a lullaby.

Natasha wrapped an arm around him gently, pulling him close and cradling him to her side. She pondered for a moment what to sing, but when the answer came to her, she wondered why she had even had to think about it at all.

As she began to sing, Nathaniel instantly relaxed beside her, his head lolling back as he already started dropping off to sleep.

 

_"Are you made of fire?_

_Are you a flame?_

_You've taught my eyes,_

_How to see again._

 

_I was down so low,_

_I could not see,_

_Couldn't feel the good old,_

_Soul in me._

 

_But in the darkest night,_

_The stars shine bright._

_When all is dark,_

_You are the light."_

 

By the time she reached the third verse, the others had congregated around them, joining them in sprawling out in the grass and singing softly to the youngest Barton.

After a while, Natasha stopped singing, finding joy in simply lying back and listening to her family as they went through the remaining verses.

She wished she had a photographic memory, so that she could record this perfect moment forever.

Her heart swelled with love for the people around her; her mismatched, weird, perfect family.

Clint and Laura were holding hands, Steve and Bucky lying on the grass just beyond them, side by side. Lila was sat cross-legged next to Bucky, pulling up daisies. Cooper had propped himself up on a bony elbow on the other side of Phil. The soft weight of Nathaniel pressed up against her side, the two-year-old's blonde curls tickling her arm.

Her family. Her wonderful, oddball family.

She smiled, lay back and listened to them sing.

A happy sigh escaped her. She was immensely thankful for everything that had led up to this moment; every twist of fate, every decision she had made to pursue freedom, to become good.

It had all been worth it, in the end.

Despite everything, she had resisted the temptation to become Madame B's soulless killing machine.

She had treasured poetry, chased freedom and loved deeply.

These were the things that made her human.

Unbidden, Alexander Pushkin's poem floated across her mind.

_Love, the frivolous disorder fills every jitter of my soul._

She lay back and watched the big blue sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU: Wow, I can't believe this story is finally over. After 8 months and over a quarter of a million words, we're finally at the end... Thank you SO MUCH to every single one of you who have taken the time to read this story and follow Natasha on her journey. I really wanted to write an origin story that this fantastic character could be proud of and I hope I've achieved that goal. It has been an honour and a privilege to share this work with you. I've really enjoyed writing it and I hope you've enjoyed reading it too. I want to give a huge shout out to all of you who have commented, left kudos and sent me messages of support both on here and on Tumblr - feedback is really important to writers and I appreciate it immensely that you've taken the time out of your day to give me some; you're the kindest, most awesome, most enthusiastic fans I could wish for! Thank you for sharing this journey with me; it's been incredible <3
> 
> SEQUELS: I am planning to write other stories in the Fearless universe! I have a Clint Barton origin story currently brewing in my head, which will tie in with Fearless but be focused on Clint and his story. If you want to follow more Fearless-verse stories, then [subscribe to the series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/849003)!
> 
> ANY QUESTIONS: I hope this final chapter has tied up all the loose ends. If anything is unclear though, or if you have any questions at all, then just leave a comment and I will get back to you.
> 
> RECS: If you want to recommend this story to your friends and fandom-buddies, then please do! I have created a piece of artwork to go with this fic on Tumblr, which you're more than welcome to share! You can find it [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/162740447326/fearless-a-black-widow-origin-story-title).
> 
> ALL FEARLESS CHAPTER ART + BONUS ART + Q&As: You can see all things Fearless-related on my Tumblr account by searching the "fearless" tag [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/tagged/fearless).
> 
> KEEP IN TOUCH: Don't be a stranger, keep in touch! I am on Tumblr under the name [ao3-elle1991](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/). I post updates about my writing, share beautiful Marvel-related images that I come across and very occasionally share stuff about my life, so if any of that sounds interesting to you, then give me a follow and/or a message :)
> 
> NEXT STORIES: If you want to get an email whenever I post something new, then click on [my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle1991) and become a user subscriber. Be aware that this is _different_ from the Subscribe button on the top of _this_ page, which is for this story _only_ :)

**Author's Note:**

> OTHER STUFF I'VE WRITTEN:
> 
> [Steve And Bucky's Kinky Alphabet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11776473) (176,544 words) - 26 chapters of explicit porn-with-plot featuring Steve and Bucky. Or: the one where JARVIS goes rogue and kidnaps the Avengers until they can sort their mental health out, and Steve and Bucky fuck a lot and fall in love.
> 
> [Vengeance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7285612) (51,573 words) - Bucky falls from the train. Steve will do anything to take revenge on those responsible for his death - even if it means joining HYDRA.
> 
> [Secrets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14704965) (40,706 words) - Bucky is a man with a big secret: for 70 years, he was HYDRA's weapon. Nevertheless, despite his dark past, he is trying to move on with his life and has even formed a relationship with Tony. All seems to be going well, until a security breach at SHIELD threatens to expose his past.
> 
> [Love Is Blind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15366393) (14,512 words) - After a mission goes horribly wrong, Natasha is left completely blind. As SHIELD scientists desperately seek a cure, Natasha struggles to come to terms with her disability.
> 
> [At Your Service](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14624802) (12,931 words) - Clint and Natasha lose a bet. Phil gets them to dress up and act out some of his many, many Captain America fanboy fantasies.
> 
> [The Adventures Of Steve Rogers, Newsboy Extraordinaire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15153170) (11,161 words) - 7-year-old Steve has Selective Mutism. When Steve finds himself confronting a dangerous criminal, will he find the courage within himself to save the day - and even find his voice?
> 
> [I Like Cats, Too](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13646094) (10,526 words) - When the Avengers are torn apart by the split caused by the Sokovia Accords, a depressed Natasha lapses into a prolonged period of silence. Will anyone be able to help Natasha overcome her depression and mutism? Enter a very special cat named Midnight...
> 
> [The Black Widow Ice Cream Parlour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15253527) (3,746 words) - Natasha meets one of the people whose lives she has saved, and finally gets the appreciation she deserves.
> 
> [The End Of The Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7088617) (3,433 words) - Bucky falls from the train to his assumed death. Steve has to come to terms with a world without him in it.
> 
> [Turkish Oil Wrestling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7013452) (2,620 words) - Steve and Bucky decide to have a wrestling match to settle an old score. Cue them stripping down to their pants, getting oiled up and engaging in a vigorous wrestling match that leaves them both hot and sweaty.
> 
> [So, You Like Cats?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7046986) (1,697 words) - Sam has a confession to make. It could make or break his and T'Challa's relationship. It all comes down to one question: Do you like cats?
> 
> [In Memoriam: James Buchanan Barnes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7924684) (120 words) - A grief-stricken Steve writes a poem in honour of his best friend.


End file.
